Bereft
by avaruuksenlintu
Summary: After a destructive encounter with some of Talia's assassins, Damian is facing a nightmare he has never been prepared for. [Mention of rape, language, violence.]
1. Opening

**Disclaimer**: _I do not own Batman - DC does_.

Hello! _This is my first_ Batman _fanfiction, born in the middle of a difficult night. Well, more like a prelude of it all__. The point of view will change for each chapter, in order to catch more pieces of the big picture._ :)

Alfred_ and _Jaybird_ will appear later only, but yes, they are in this fanfiction as well! Jee for these two._

_I hope you'll enjoy reading this story, despite its (dark) theme. Feel free to review if you've liked it... Or even if you _didn't_ like it, too - constructive criticism is always welcome! _;)

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**Opening – _Richard Grayson_**

Back when I was the Batman, there were but two things I ever truly feared. _Two_ _fucking_ _little_ _things_. I feared I'd fail Damian; that he would not trust me, that he would run away, that I would get him killed. He wasn't just _my_ _Robin_, after all. I grew fond of the kid, or so I used to claim to avoid admitting that my brotherly love was unconditional. Complete. I thus feared I'd fail Damian much before I feared I'd fail Gotham, and that was about it. Little bird meant the world.

Tonight there is a dead man at my feet, and two other corpses near the wall I'm facing. The room is small and grey. There is no window, no escape but a door, behind me, that Batman has destroyed a few seconds earlier. There are red stains all around the place. The air smells of iron, sweat and cigarette. There is Damian. _My_ _bird_. He is knelt down, naked, in the center of this mess, not answering nor even acknowledging his father or me, despite the multiple calls of his name. His arms are covered in blood, which I assume once flushed through the dead Assassins' veins. Some of it had splashed on Damian's cheeks and lips, and got mixed with a pearl white, thick liquid I refuse to see. This is _not_ happening. It _can't_.

Fears should remain but fears.

Batman, sat in front of Damian, takes his cowl off at last. But it doesn't matter. The boy will not answer – we both know it too well. Bruce _tries_ anyway. He tries in vain and his hands are shaking, his words soon meaningless. Damian's clothes are discarded there and then on the cold floor. Some are pretty torn up. Leaning on the doorframe, I feel sick and dizzy. I wish I could wake up. _It's just a nightmare, right_? I hear Red Robin's steps hurrying through the hallways, heading straight toward us and this massive disaster. I wish I'd find the strength to forbid him to step in. My kind little brother… He should never see _that_.

Bruce does not dare to touch his youngest son's bare skin, yet carefully wraps his cape around the boy as Red Robin reaches the doorway, stopping his race at once. My stomach is upside down. It feels like I could faint any moment, if only to avoid this sentiment of guilt.

We failed. We failed _hard_. Red Robin's – no, _Tim's_ – hand catches mine, looking for some sort of comfort I simply can't give him.

"Nightwing," I hear Bruce say, "we have to get him out. Back to the cave. You'll have to drive – I'll keep him on my lap."

"I… I can't." _I feel nauseated_. "I can't drive, Batman, can't leave Red Robin alone…"

"_Richard_."

I shiver at the sound my own name, can't tell if the tone is furious, worried or desperate. _Guilty, _maybe. Damian finally lets his body slip into his father's arms. His eyes are shut as his fingers tightly grasp Bruce's left hand. I find it hard to breathe.

"We should call Al." Tim's voice is blank and low. "Nightwing and I could take the Batmobile – _I_'ll drive –, and you and Damian could get a more comfortable ride home. You can't ask any of us to stay out of this, Batman. You really can't. We are _all_ going back."

Bruce doesn't answer. He glares at me instead. His blue eyes are full of an anger I haven't witnessed since Jason's funeral. There is something more in it, but I better not dig it up right now; not that I even _could_… He _knows_. He feels just exactly how breathless, numb and frightened I am. I hear Tim whisper my name in a concerned tone, as Damian seems close to lose consciousness. Bruce is about to speak when I cut him off, faking some assurance:

"No. I need fresh air. I'll get back to the manor by myself while you'll drive them there, Red Robin. We can't wait for Al to come. Damian needs proper care at _home_ – not in the _cave_, and you know that, B., right?" He looks even angrier now, his eyes averting mine as he pulls Damian closer to his chest.

Tim waits a few seconds before he lets go of my hand.

"Nightwing, I'm not sure we should…" A bit of my composure slips as I turn around to face my little brother. He sounded nervous. He's _scared_.

"We _have_ to, Tim," I spit. "Don't pretend the situation isn't brand new tonight. It _is_. It _fucking_ is. Sure, we've been wounded through the years. We've taken cuts, bullets, stitches and bone breaks… Man, two of us even _died_… But this time, it's something else. Let's not play big tough guys while a _child_, our _brother_ and _son_, is in such a poor state. We screwed up already. Face it, and face it _fast_."

"_Enough_."

Bruce is losing it. He keeps his voice in control not to scare Damian, but it's pretty obvious his rage is getting over him. For about a minute, none of us say a word, until Bruce slowly gets up, the kid in his arms, and walks toward Red Robin and me. He doesn't even lift his head up, doesn't even look at us. Damian's got his full attention.

"Red Robin, prepare the Batmobile. _Please_." Tim nods and escapes the room, after giving me a quick tap on the shoulder. Bruce represses a sigh. "Nightwing…," he whispers, "You can go. Meet with us in the cave as soon as…"

"The _cave_? No! It's not where Damian should…"

"I _know_. I've _heard_ you the first time, and I'm _taking_ your advice. _You_ will meet with Red Robin and me in there _first_, because we have to discuss what just happened tonight, the reason why we _screwed_ _up_ – to use your words – and how we are going to help Damian get through it, without risking for the slightest destructive behavior to stick around. Understood?"

I can't take my eyes off my bird. He is asleep, or almost. I raise a hand to reach for him but Bruce's sharp "_Nightwing_" cuts my action mid-way. My Robin. My _failure_.

"Understood."

Bruce makes his way out of the building, following Tim's trail. When I cannot hear the muffled sound of his steps anymore, I take a deep breath and start to scout the room, grabbing Damian's shattered clothes from the floor. The sight of the Assassins' corpses makes me feel sick again. I've sure seen death before, but tonight, it's different. These freaks are no victims. Wouldn't the night be fucked up already, I'd set them on fire. There is no need to think too much about who planned this whole thing and the simple thought gives me chills. _Quick, the cave, the manor, my bird_… I run away as soon as I am certain that only rotting flesh is to be found in there.

Outside, autumn winds bite my cheeks. It must be three o'clock. Gotham, in the distance, is pretending to be asleep. Perhaps Damian is, too.

I hope he won't wake up.

* * *

_See you in chapter 1 - in a few nights, probably._ :) _It's 2.49am here... -Mirkku_


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer**: _I do not own Batman - DC does_.

_I felt bad for not updating it in a while. As an apology, I combined what were originaly planned to be chapters 1 &amp; 2 in a single one.  
Please note that reading Red Hood and The Outlaws #8 might be a great help to understand the story references used for Tim's POV._

_To the people who reviewed the "opening" chapter - THANK YOU! Same goes for those following the story. Please leave a little comment this time! :)  
And special thanks to Anne-Lise, my wonderful support and beta._

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**1\. – _Timothy Drake-Wayne_**

There is something convenient being Jason Todd's friend. Something I need to hold onto right now.

The kitchen smells of fresh coffee and burnt toasts. The chair I'm sitting on is cold, like the air, or so my sustained immobility makes me believe. I am facing a window; the night is bright, the sky starry. Jason doesn't say a word as he grabs butter, marmalade jars and milk from the open fridge. His messy hair, red cheeks and hazy green pupils were a sight I never thought I'd come across in this lifetime. Then again _this_ _lifetime_ has been pretty messed up, lately.

"I'm sorry that I barged in like that," I mutter. "And that I woke you up."

"You've woken me up countless times in the past, _'bro'_." Jason's voice is soothing, although a bit hoarse. "Dreams about you used to be the worst kind."

"Sorry about _that_, too."

"Eh, it's fine. At least back then those were only visions, but you look like shit, tonight, and you are _very_ _real_. Not quite what I hoped for."

There is something convenient being Jason Todd's _brother_. He's honest. He's _fair_. There is no place for pity nor lies in his icy eyes as he starts to pour coffee in the mug in front of me. His whole body is relaxed, moving smoothly toward the chair at the other side of the table, on which he sits without haste. All of a sudden, I feel exhausted. Let out a soft sigh.

"You should eat something," I hear Jason say.

"Not hungry."

"Don't care. _Eat_."

There is a hint of concern in the tone he nevertheless manages to keep firm. He is serious. I give in and grab a slice of bread I chop up in tiny pieces and swallow with disgust.

Twenty-two hours. Not even a whole _day_, and I'm crashing already.

It killed me, last morning, to hear Bruce and Dick argue so loudly about the right way to handle the _situation_, merely forgetting our focus was Robin. Damian. A _kid_. Their talk made it sound more like a case aftermath they felt _compelled_ to deal with, before things became too personal and the two simply chose to scream at each other, spitting bitter regrets. It was ugly. _Sick_. By the time Alfred stepped in, dragging Bruce back into the manor, I had let go of the hopeful feelings I had been trying to keep up. It was unnecessary. The meeting was rescheduled, Jason got back in Gotham a few hours later, and Dick had locked himself up in his old room.

I remained in the cave. I was unable to move. It took me a while to breathe normally again, and the moment I did, I escaped the manor grounds, got downtown, and woke Jason up.

Not a good day for pride.

"Alfred called earlier."

Jason's tone is cautious. He knows I'm on the edge. By now he is used to decode the signs I send. I observe the way he makes his coffee swirl in his mug. When his eyes meet mine, I nod in silence.

"Lucky that he caught me…," he groans. "Family meeting at dawn, in the cave. Didn't say why."

"_Damian_."

"What has he done this time?"

"Nothing. _We_ screwed up, _he_ paid."

Jason doesn't insist. He never really does.

The water is burning my skin and the steam makes my vision cloudy. But it is not so bad. In fact, it is quite relaxing, considering that my muscles are still tensed since the image of Damian I caught back in that warehouse.

Perhaps I should erase this memory already.

Jason has left a towel, a pair of sweatpants I once forgot here and an old T-shirt of his for me, in the bathroom. "_We need some rest, Tim_" – he said. At least on his part, he sure isn't lying. Rough mission, I gather. My exhaustion is of another kind, one that sleep can't wipe away; yet, if this '_rest'_ means that I'll get to spend a few hours in quietude, at Jason's side, I won't turn down the offer.

I miss our Tuesdays. Our breakfasts up one of the Lex towers, back when we weren't so busy all the time. He would come around eight, always with a different, exotic touch to add to the waffles and bread we drowned in hot chocolate and covered with whipped cream. I used to tell him most of the things that were happening in my little life, and in return he shared with me stories of the time when he was Robin, or the latest silly action Roy had done to make their days interesting. He always made me laugh. I like to tell myself I made him feel like he _belonged_. And maybe I'm wrong, but tonight, I want to believe that I wasn't, and that he welcomed me here as a brother. Not as a _failed_ co-worker.

I don't need the comfort of _someone knowing the risks_.

The flat is definitely cold, now that I just wander there barefoot and tired, and despite the thin T-shirt I've finally put on. I make my way toward the bedroom where Jason is throwing a bigger blanket over the double-bed.

"Dawn is in three hours," he whispers. "It's not much, but a little nap won't hurt. Sorry that we'll have to share the bed this time."

"I'm not sure I can sleep, Jay… Nerves, and all that."

"Then just don't wake me up. _Again_. And don't go away. We'll get to the manor together."

"Alright."

He turns the lights off after he is certain that I slipped under the blanket. Joins me there. For a moment, all we hear are the buzzing sounds of night birds singing behind the window, police and emergency cars screaming further away in town.

"Loud night…," Jason growls. He stays close to me, eyes shut, breathing slowly. His body heat is gentle to feel.

"About Damian…," I begin.

"Don't tell me – not just yet. I'd like to get some sleep while I still can do it the easy way. Beside, _Damian_ is the one who should tell me _what_ _happened_, and only if he wishes to. I'm fine with him never sharing that. I'll protect and help anyway. It doesn't change anything."

"Bruce might tell you."

"And I'll blame _him_ for that in time."

My hand moves alone to catch his. He doesn't pull away. I tighten my grip as he falls asleep.

* * *

**2\. – _Bruce Wayne_**

Damian is small. I tend to elude that. His flawless fighting techniques, sarcasm and manners can fool everyone he meets. He _looks_ tall. Tough, almost unbeatable. He flies above Gotham like a constant thread to villains and allies alike. The boy can _hurt_. He can overwhelm minds. In the past I have seen men and monsters tremble with fear as they met his stern gaze, some going as far as begging for mercy when he was standing still, ten feet away from their touch. But ten feet indeed _is_ a dangerous range to be within when it comes to Damian. He knows the steps. He sees the breaches. He has _ways_ to make people forgetting the fact that he is a _mere_ _child_, and he is content with it, just as much as I faked to be.

Because _Damian_ _is_ _small_. His hands are tiny and his shoulders are frail. I see it all now. Perhaps I always did, but it was so easy, so _alright_ to play blind when Damian stood so strong, however down he sometimes fell. Even this was okay. I'd sit by his side. I'd pull him into a brief embrace and the pain would go; _seem_ to. I'd have his bruises stitched and his fever put down. We'd argue louder than necessary and spit our feelings out. It'd work.

Not _now_.

"Say, when _I_ was _his_ _Batman_, there was this one time some Venom-drugged creeps threw a surprise attack, near the docks, in bright light. Damian was yet to recover from a broken arm and a mild concussion, that afternoon. He was just hanging there as a civilian and got knocked down while helping people escape the area, before I could even set a foot on the scene. A friend of his protected them both while waiting for the rescue team, and after this mess was over, I got to carry Damian back to the cave on my motorbike, since the Batmobile wasn't available and the jet far from discrete. It was a grim time – more like a busy week... And Damian worried me. I mean, more than usual. He had nothing serious at all, of course. The cast stayed in place a few more days, and that was it. But he was _smaller_ then."

Dick is standing in the hallway, looking calmer by now. His tone is warm and soothing. From the chair I'm sat on, nearby Damian's bed, I can clearly see that he is still in need of some sleep. Still, this is a much smoother start than the one we got yesterday in the cave. I can but thank him for it, mentally; Dick has always known how to help me keep my sanity in line, and has coped with my imperfections without complaining much thorough the years, without getting away. That is, when we didn't burst into fights no words nor gestures could ever erase. It's a wonder we're still in such good terms, considering we tend to skip apologies and conceal the resent until time washes it away. It's a wonder time always does _so_, between us.

I feel the weight on my shoulders lifting as I nod at him in acknowledgement.

"I believe he has grown since," I reply. "A few inches, maybe."

"He still cannot fill Tim's Red Robin costume, although he tried several times… But don't tell Tim about that. Or Damian. Don't tell anyone."

For a while, we listen to the silence. It is not as heavy as I thought it would be, with Damian asleep between the two of us. Dick named him _Robin_. I merely followed his wishes, at first, when I allowed Damian to keep this legacy on. Only later was I convinced it indeed was for the best.

Dick outwitted me. He _knew_. He has seen through Damian and felt all the kindness the boy could prove to be made of, made _for_, back when no one around would even call him _human_. He has tempered the kid's behavior and gained his trust with ease, teaching him how to improve his moral balance until I came back to pursue this crusade. He never mentions it. Not in that terms, anyway. He likes to talk about the time he was _Damian's Batman_, just like a big brother enjoys to bring on the table his younger siblings' achievements, big and trivial, distancing himself from every bit of credit it may hold.

"Jason and Tim are waiting down the cave," he says. "Alfred is making tea. Said something about waffles, too, but I hope I misheard that…"

"I'll be right there."

"Eh, take your time. We're not going anywhere. Neither is Damian."

Dick knows it _all_. Smart, kind-hearted son.

When I arrive in the batcave, Jason and Tim are quietly sitting next to each other while Dick and Alfred are trying to get Titus to move away from the passenger seat of the Batmobile. The dog had stayed there since we came back from the warehouse, and whatever his reason is, I'd gladly leave him in be for the time being. Dick and Alfred probably need a distraction, though, so I let them have it a little longer as I approach my two other boys.

"Thank you for coming."

"Yeah, don't mention it."

"So you and Dick patched up?"

"We did. Don't worry."

I know it's no use; Tim is a worrier. He gets anxious and sleepless at the simple thought that the people close to him might be in trouble. Jason is no different. His arms are crossed on his chest and his face displays no feeling, but he _cares_. Over the years, he has shown just how much he grew attached to his friends and, I must admit, his brothers. I've seen him trying to reach out for Damian a few times. I know about the breakfasts he shares with Tim, in New York. Dick and him have not had any particular fight in months. Somehow, _oddly_, Jason's presence is a relief.

"I didn't know whether or not you would come, Jay."

"Could have missed me. Roy and I have been keeping ourselves busy off-Earth a lot, lately. But well. I'm here now."

_Another_ _wonder_. I smile a little. Behind me, Alfred and Dick finally give up on Titus' case. Better luck later. I am concerned that Damian might look after the dog if he wakes up alone, upstairs, while we are underground. Before Dick mentioned Damian having a _friend_, I would have been tempted to think Titus was the only one the boy got. Even so, he's the only one present, at the moment. Alfred seems to notice my discomfort.

"How is Master Damian, sir?"

"Asleep, old friend. He should wake up soon."

"Before that," Dick cuts in, glancing at Jason, "How much do _you_ know?"

Jason take a couple of seconds to think about his answer. His gaze is careful, trying to determine the appropriate tone he should use. Fights won't happen today.

"Basics," he breathes out. "Awry night, Damian down. Details are for the _kid_ to tell me; not you."

"Fair enough, but if Damian never tells…"

"His choice, then. It wouldn't anger me. Clearly this is not a funny ride he's been on, judging by the dread you bat and birds carry around now, so I'm not really sure I'd be happy to ever hear of what happened out there."

"We won't tell," I promise. "But Damian will still need help."

"I wouldn't bet on it." Tim's voice is a bit raspy. "I mean, yes, he needs us to be _available_ and ready to push him a little so he could vent all the wrong and the anger, but I don't think he would like us to constantly be with him, asking questions, _forcing_ him to cope with us while being over-protective and all over the place. It's _Damian_. He'd never like that."

"Like Tim says," Jason replies. "Birdy doesn't do pity, nor does he want any. If we have to help, it will be on _his_ terms. Otherwise, it's compromised."

"As much as I agree with you, boys, we cannot act as if nothing happened, neither."

"We didn't say that."

"Bruce, they're right." Dick passes a hand in his wild hair, eyes closed. "And so are _you_. We have to find a balance, and it may start by staying closer to Gotham for a while. _All_ of us." Frowning, Jason nods slowly. "Good. _Thank you_. You are the only one clueless here, Jason, and it can only be good for Damian to have someone around that is never _pretending_, in his presence."

"There's that, indeed. I'll stay close – when possible.

"That will be helpful," I say. "Thank you. Tim, how about the Titans?"

"I'll call it _off_ for the time being. _Family_ _matter_. They'll understand."

"If I may, Sir – how about miss Gordon?"

"My call," Dick whispers. "Not now, but… Yeah. I'm on it."

"I see."

For a minute, none of us adds anything. There is not much left to say. I am surprised we all reached an agreement without screaming, nor compromising much this time. After a long minute of linger, Dick shakes his head, sighs, and raises a hand in Jason's direction.

"No offense," he says, "but there is still an issue I'd like to address, and this is directly connected to the incident, so…"

"It's fine. Gotta connect with Roy anyway. I'll come to train with Damian in a couple of days."

"To _train_?"

"Eh, we all have our ways…"

With that, Jason waves at us, leaves a soft tap on Tim's right forearm, jumps on his bike and exits the cave. Tim comes closer to me. I put a hand on his shoulder as Dick begins:

"When I was picking up Damian's clothes at the warehouse, there was this disposable mobile phone near one of the men. It was crushed, but it had a _camera_. Couldn't find anything to track any possible contact down. The other corpses were clear of devices, but all three had _these_." He pulls out three micro transmitters off his pocket. "I was meant to tell you yesterday, but... _Yeah_. It doesn't matter much, I guess. The crime was practically signed."

Tim seems ill, but he still grabs the devices. This is his area of expertise, and this is _work_. Our choices are narrowed.

"I've been running tests," I whisper. "Blood, sperm, even tissue found under Damian's nails… The results are up, but I have not read it yet. I don't particularly want to. I'll keep you three informed if I find anything relevant, but as you say, Dick, the mystery doesn't appear well-hidden this time."

"What happened to '_never trust appearances, chum_'?"

"A rule I am glad both of you remember."

Dick smiles softly. That's something.

Titus followed me when I called for him, after everyone but us two left the cave. Thinking about it, Dick and I may have frightened him the last time we were there. Titus is a clever dog. He gets it when the situation is nowhere near to pleasant or safe, and he reacts fast. Confusion calls for calm. Titus was the only one following the right path.

There is light in Damian's room. _He's up_. The dog runs at him, barking a couple of times, stopping his course when his head bumps in Damian's legs. The boy caresses him, _absently_. He has opened the curtains and sat near his drawing desk, looking for something as he randomly picks pens, ink bottles and notebooks he piles up on one side until they fall on the floor. He doesn't seem to notice. Barely breathes.

"Damian?"

"I don't find it," he replies, his voice strained. "My music player. It should be there."

"How do you feel?"

He doesn't answer, eyes now on the dog he pats gently. I get closer, with caution.

"Maybe I've left it in the cave…," he murmurs.

"I'll get it for you. You should go back in bed, son."

He doesn't move. Kneeling in front of him, I start to stroke his right arm.

"Damian…"

"Are you mad?"

"_No_."

That came out harsher than it was supposed to. Damian shivers. I move my hand to the back of his, where I start tracing circles.

"No," I repeat, more quietly. "I am not mad; worried is all."

He doesn't say a word. We leave it at that.

An hour later, when I am back in the manor with his music player, I spot Damian in the kitchen, drinking a glass of milk, his phone ringing from the counter he had let it on a couple of days earlier. But he doesn't pick it up. Nor does he talk to me, again – the _whole_ _day_. Only in the evening do I find him in my bed, sleeping soundly under the blanket, all lights on. His phone is burst in dozens of pieces around the hallway leading to his room.

* * *

_+1 to those guessing who _Damian's friend_ is!_ _He'll_ _have his own chapter as well._  
_Until then..._


	3. Chapter Two - part 1

**Disclaimer**: _I do not own Batman - DC Comics does_.

_My apologies for being so late. I am really not the confident kind, when it comes to writing... This is very stressful._

_Please enjoy this chapter! :) Feel free to review, too, it always warms my heart. Thank you all for following the story so far! I will try to write more. Hopefully, the snow will help..._

* * *

**1\. – Richard Grayson**

Talking to Barbara has proven to be more difficult than I thought it might get. We used to be close. _Past_ _tense_. After I resumed as Nightwing and stopped visiting Gotham as much as I could have, she and I had trouble communicating. The _girlfriends_ did not help, on my part. Babs is over me. We grew apart, as adults, and while it should have been the best way to strengthen our bond as friends, it has instead created a trench we fail to leap over so we could to reach out for each other.

I did not know how to break the news over the phone, or during a nice date, so I met her on some rooftop during patrol. Talk about cowardice. She was upset, for some reason, one I did not take the time to get interested in as the words '_They raped Damian_' were pronounced. I still cannot bring myself to admit it was my voice. The tone was bored. _Sufficient_. I hated that dry sound and it has been haunting me since. Barbara did not reply anything, nor did she seem sad or angry anymore. Her baleful look sent shivers to my spine, and a minute later she just left without a word, jumping on the nearest roof before she disappeared into the city maze. I did not go after her.

"Patience and care, Master Dick." Alfred pats my shoulders. "Miss Barbara needs time, and so do you."

"How about Damian?"

"Master Jason carried him upstairs a couple of hours ago." Concern and surprise might show all over my face, for Alfred raises his hands defensively, and quickly adds – "I do not know the details. Master Damian was asleep, unharmed. Master Jason exhibited some bruises, but nothing serious. They were sparring in the cave since noon."

"Thanks, Al."

Raising from the chair I have been sulking on for a while, I give the butler a soft tap on the arm. His kindness embraces my entire sanity. I start to make my way out of the kitchen, when his stern voice, behind me, cuts my motion.

"Richard." He rarely calls me that. "My deepest worries are directed to you _all_, these days. If I am honest, young Master Damian might not be the one this situation affects the most. You know him. You know the _family_. You all tend to hold on guilt."

I bite my tongue to avoid spitting bitter words to the face of the man who keeps our whole bunch out of stranded waters. He is right anyway. I slowly start walking through the hallway, heading up the stairs. A beat sigh echoes from the kitchen.

I was hoping to find Damian asleep in his own room, but he has crashed in Jason's instead. Most likely Jason thought it would be better to drop him here. A disputable choice.

"Damian has a room," I whisper. "It's across the hallway, second door to the right."

"So I've been told."

"Then why _here_? If Bruce finds out…"

"Then be it. It's fine. I can take the blame, but Damian ain't going back to that bedroom. Kid asked not to."

I count until ten, observe the surroundings. Jason is sat on an old armchair placed in the corner opposing the door, his legs crossed, close enough to the bed for him to watch over Damian's sleeping silhouette. His bare arms show contusions there and then, and a fresh cut shines over his lower lip. _Of_ _course_.

"Alright," I nod, making my way toward a stool, nearby the bed. "Alright. Sorry."

Jason does not bother with an answer. He seems restful, somehow, and his position hints that he has been meditating before I passed the doorway. It is quite a new take on the man. A _relaxing_ one. The pressure I felt so far melts, partly, in the soundless moment we allow ourselves to linger in.

"He was exhausted," Jason finally states. "Sedated himself."

"May I ask what brings you to play the _nanny_ up here? You usually avoid setting a foot in the Manor, let alone keeping watch on anyone inside." It might have sounded a bit harsh, and I immediately regret that. But Jason simply shrugs.

"True, and if you _must_ know, staying here makes me sick. Stress, _nerves_, or something like that…" He gives in to fleeting thoughts, for a minute, his hands joined and his forearms loosely resting over his tights. His shoulders stiffen for a second, before he quietly speaks – "See, my mom was an addict. Although you probably knew that." He sinks deeper into the armchair, takes a deep breath, and pushes his head back a little. His jawline, from that angle, looks almost juvenile. "I forgave _much_," he mumbles. "Must have kept the habit, else I wouldn't be here. You guys are plain ungrateful – patronizing me, luring me to _trust_ you only to betray this feeling the next day, while all I do is answering your emergency calls and showing up no matter what… But eh, it's okay. It's family, and all that. So long story short, my mother was an addict with all the fun it implies, and although I forgave her for this I _really_ don't wanna see Damian walking the same path. _Despair_, that is."

There are not many things I could answer to that. What has befallen the family since Jason came back to life is not a safe topic. We fought. We yelled. We danced on wrong feet. I cannot even recall the last time Jason and I had such a _pleasant_ conversation, as for once we are not talking trash to each other or sputtering smart-ass, under-the-belt comments shot to cast further away this made-up brotherhood neither of us had ever felt comfortable with.

"How was it for her?", I ask. Jason shivers at that. Taking a deep breath, he frowns and tilts his head to the left, just a tad. His eyes are still set on Damian. I let my hands fall on my lap, before the words I actually meant escape my lips – "How was it for _you_?"

Tim once warned me about Jason's unstable, yet _caring_ nature. '_He has feelings – the overwhelming kind_', he said. I did not dig it up. Jason was short-tempered, a trait the pit had worsened. It was nothing new and I did not understand why Tim had been so keen on talking about _Jason,_ of all people. Back then their relationship appeared to me as an even more spectacular wreck than the sick war play Bruce and the Joker shared. And I was damn _wrong_. Tim and Jay took their time, but they got _somewhere_. Tim calls for back-up, Jason shows up. Jason needs information, Tim retrieves it for him. They feel like a breakfast is in order, they share one. They get along. They get each other. Tim's statement did not come out of a wild guess or some sugarcoated fantasy he would have built around the man; Jason _is_ unstable, but he _cares_. The weary look I notice he is giving me right now has edges – anger, annoyance, suspicion of some kind. Perhaps I pushed our sweet luck too far. I am about to withdraw my question, when Jason adjusts himself in the armchair, stretches his arms he then crosses over his chest, glancing back at Damian.

"She was sad", he whispers. "_Trapped_, you know? Things that trap you from the inside are the worst knots. She stopped wishing to escape it, at some point. She was okay with dread. I'm here to make sure it won't happen to Damian, 'cause if my mom was a weakling, the kid could just lose it and start smashing big. Or he could hurt himself."

"I doubt he would. He has more will than that."

"Yeah. So did _I_."

And hearing this, at last, I feel relieved that Jason is now staying within reach.

* * *

_So. Colin is next._


	4. Chapter Two - part 2

**_I do no own Batman, nor any of these characters_.**

_**Thank** **you** all - readers, reviewers, followers... Your comments are my fuel! _:)_ I would **love** to hear your thoughts on this (long) chapter. Colin's POV is a real pleasure to write.  
With Damian back in the picture, please expect longer chapters, more violence, and more Colin. + Jason. We all need more Jason._

_Enjoy this one!_ :)_ A special thought for my lovely bêta, La Louve à la Plume. You're awesome, sweetheart._

* * *

**2\. – Colin Wilkes**

Sister Agnes caught me sneaking out, but didn't say anything. She stopped _asking_ a long time ago. I passed her by in front of the locked gates of the orphanage, which I had just climbed over, and she simply turned her head the other way. She knows, after all. About the Scarecrow, and _Abuse_, and the bruises, and everything. She has nothing left to ask. I like it as it is, and so does she – I _guess_. We're good either way.

There is a big portion of road to travel from St. Aden to Wayne Manor. Walking is no option. I could use the bike Damian gave me, but it's only noon, so Abuse would attract too much attention. Luckily, I have a few dollars left. Since Damian shut his phone off, or perhaps blocked my number – that would _hurt_ –, the phone bill has gone cheap. I've been looking for _Robin_ for weeks, too, up the city roofs, spotting bats and bigger birds whereas not even once catching sights of my fearless friend. It worries me much. It's not his kind. Can't say I know him _that_ well, but I _get_ him, and he treats me equal. The idea that he would disappear from my days and nights at _once_ has gotten me sick multiple times over the year we've known each other. The plan was _never_ for it to become real.

Near Wayne Tower, I hop on a bus Damian once told me stops around Crest Hill. The ride is about forty-five minutes. Getting there and back will take away every dollar I saved; it's alright, though. I don't mind being broke, or finding myself thrown outside what I imagine to be an impressive iron castle by an irate Damian, annoyed as he could be with my unannounced visit. He just has to be _alive_, and that'd be it. That'd be _alright_.

I'd _pray_ if needed.

I sit close to the driver, inquire: "Excuse me, Sir? I'd like to see Wayne Manor. Could you tell me when to get off?" The old man gives me a wary look, then starts the engine again. I keep my eyes wide open. The first couple of miles, a few people get on the bus, but no one is going as far as I do. It makes sense, of course; Crest Hill families usually have chauffeurs. From time to time mine, _temporarily_ mine, grumbles something that may sound like '_street rat_' or '_cocky brat_'. I can't blame him. I look like what I am – an orphan surviving on charity, with old clothes, wild hair, and bruises still showing on my neck, courtesy of the fight I got into with some thugs last night. So, _yeah_. Not the average teen that folks expect to find in Gotham's upper-class area. This bus driver might be thinking that I am looking for something to steal, or to dream about. The latter is somewhat true.

Shortly after we've crossed the bay and drove along the cliff, we stop in front of a bus sign. The road separates in two streets, from what I can see coming ahead. My chauffeur spins on his seat to face me, still a bit moody. He waves his left hand somewhere further away.

"Here, bud," he grunts. "You get off now, then you get on _that_ path, and after what, ten minutes? You've got small legs, so make in fifteen, well after fifteen minutes walking straight, you'll be there."

"Thanks."

"You don't live here, eh? Something you _want_ at the Wayne's?" _There it is_.

"Wanna see what it's like", I quickly lie. "Maybe they'd have a job for me?"

"Yeah, right. I wish you that."

I let out a polite chuckle and step outside the vehicle. When it is out of hearing distance, I start walking the route the man indicated me. My _small_ _legs_ carry me well, apparently, as I arrive in front of the wide open property gates in what seems to be no time. The place is huge and quiet. _Really_ quiet. I can hear the buzzing of insects, and the wind, and that is all, as if the city had vanished. It helps me relax, if anything. I have no clue regarding the kind of situation waiting for me behind the massive entrance door I softly knock on. All considered, with the five cameras I already encountered between the gates and here, I am not sure that was even required. _Silly me_. My hand is still trembling. I should remember to breathe.

A slender man, in his late fifties, quickly opens the door. I take half a step back. The man's eyes fall on me, his expression austere, yet interrogative. He matches the description Damian gave me of the family _butler_.

"Uh, he-hello," I stutter. "I'm here to see Damian? I'm… I'm a friend of his."

For a moment, he doesn't react, until his lips part in a respectful smile, his features more relaxed.

"Of course," he whispers, bowing his head a little.

"Name's Colin," I add. "Sorry to bother you, sir."

"You most certainly do not. Please, come in."

I awkwardly enter the Manor, trying not to look around too much. '_It is impolite, Colin_', Sister Agnes would scold. The butler closes the door behind me.

"Should I take care of your bag, Master Colin?" he asks in an amused tone.

I can't help but blushing at the name. Damian had warned me about this custom, but that still is a bit of a shock. Damian told me a _lot_, in the end, despite ditching most of the personal questions. _That' still one point for me_. I shake my head and answer as low as possible:

"Thank you, sir, but that isn't necessary. The bag… I brought some things for Damian. Stuffs. Figured he was in trouble – well, I don't know if he is, but if so, then… Then, yes. _Stuffs_." I am nervous. I sound _stupid_. I am ready to run away with my shame this instant, when a short, measured laugh comes from the old employee.

"Very well, _then_," he says. "If you would please follow me, I will lead you to the living room. Master Damian is in the garden right now, but there is someone there who might wish to meet you _first_."

The knots in my stomach are getting tighter as I jog after the butler along the hallways. If this '_someone_' is Damian's _dad_, and it can only be, it means that I will soon reunite with a man who only ever saw me as a violent, Venom-drugged human experiment who tried to kill him once. But on the other hand, Bruce Wayne is also responsible for me living at Saint Aden, and despite all the trouble it gets me into, this is still much nicer than the never-ending foster home transfers and the forced, ineffective therapy programs. It might thus be my chance to finally thank the _Batman_. For those deeds, and for his son.

The living room we walk into is bright, surrounded by large windows opening towards a beautiful garden. In the middle of this space, two persons were having tea, and they're _now_ glaring at me, hints of suspicion in their eyes. Bruce Wayne, on the right, softens within seconds. I assume he recognizes me – I haven't grown that much since we last met, not even two years ago. The young woman on the left, however, doesn't lower her guard. Her stance and aura lead me to believe, to _know_ she is one of _us_. Batgirl, or Batwoman. Both red-headed, like her. I feel paralyzed. Calmly placing a hand on my back, the butler clears his throat, announces in composed tones:

"Master Bruce, Miss Barbara, this is Colin. He is a friend of Master Damian, and was hoping to have a word with him today."

The doubtful gaze Barbara has kept so far instantly transforms into genuine surprise. Mister Wayne frowns, but a sort of evasive smile is lightening up his face as he replies, his voice even – "Thank you, Alfred." He then turns to me. "Would you care for a cup of tea, Colin?"

"Thanks for Saint Aden. And Damian, and _Robin_, and other things as well." Somewhere between Mister Wayne's question and my blunt, most probably out-of-place answer, I have clenched my fists. "Also," my voice goes on, "no, Sir, thank you. About the tea, I mean. I'm good." Or _not_.

Barbara openly laughs at my words, and the butler has put on a kind smile. I don't know how to respond to that. By chance, Mister Wayne doesn't seem bothered by my clumsy manners. He gets up – he is _tall; _is Damian going to be this tall someday? –, comes to me, and puts a hand on my shoulder. His expression is neutral, somehow friendly though.

"I'm glad you're here, Colin," he says. "I remember you. You don't need to thank me for anything. It is an unexpected turn of events that you and my son later met and became friends. Especially the way it happened. I wasn't there, as you probably _know_, so I am relying on my eldest son's words. He thinks highly of you. He told me you saved Damian's life - _twice_." Which is still four times less than I owe my own survival to Damian, so far. I blush in embarrassment. Mister Wayne pulls his hand away from me, crosses his arms, and frowns as he murmurs – "Actually, _I_ should be thanking _you_."

"Damian saved me on numerous occasions, and so did you, sir."

"Then please consider us even."

I want to protest, but I refrain to do so. This whole conversation makes me uncomfortable. I want, I _need_ to see Damian. My feet start moving on their own in a mix of impatience and apprehension, my fingers and knuckles white and painful from the pressure I can't relieve. This doesn't go unnoticed by neither of the three other people in the room.

"Damian took his dog out, near the cemetery," Barbara informs me. "It has been an hour already. He is still there, for some reason."

"Can I see him?" I almost plead.

"Of course," Mister Wayne nods. "You can get through this door, over there, to access the garden. Damian might even be already in sight, from the steps. He never goes very far. Stay as long as you wish – or _can_."

"Thank you." I don't know how to properly end a conversation with the kind of people the Waynes are. This day is plain _stressful_. I bow gracelessly before making my way through the designated door.

Damian can indeed be seen sitting with his back leaned on what appears to be a grave, dozens of feet away. He is drawing something, his dog laying at his side. I try not to run. I don't want to scare him. Naturally, Titus spots me first and starts barking in my direction as I get nearer. Damian doesn't move for a solid ten seconds, before he turns his attention away from the sketchbook on his lap, raising his chin so his eyes can meet mine. I've for sure seen him _tired_ in the past, but it was nothing quite like _this_. It seems that he has come to reach a brand new level of general exhaustion, which makes him look more dangerous than ever. My hands are cold again. I stop my course when I get the feeling that I am close enough – always _too_ _close_ for him. The dog circles around me as I sit down, slowly, in front of my friend. For a while, I can't find my words. Damian beat me at this.

"Titus," he growls, "it's okay. Colin is an ally." _Ouch_. "Get down." The dog obeys immediately. I try to ignore how heart-sick I could get after the conversation Damian and I are about to have. It feels like anything could light up a bomb right now, and anxiety is taking over me. Gotta hide it – _fast_.

"Hello," I attempt, as cheerful as can be. "Long time no see, or talk. I tried to call you." No answer. "Where have you been?" _Silence_. "_How_ have you been?" Damian just stares at me. Straight at my face. He keeps his expression collected, his back straight, the palms of his hands pressed against the scribbled page he was working on. _Breathe, Colin_._ In an out, steadily_. "Why _here_?"

"_Fireflies_." Damian's voice is barely audible. "They come out at sundown."

"But sundown is…" I don't finish my sentence. It's no use. Damian shivers, biting his lower lip as he closes his sketchbook and lets it fall on the ground.

"I know," he concedes. "Nightfall's _hours_ away. I _know_. But this is a quiet spot to draw. To think."

It hits me that Damian might have not spoken in a while; his tones are coarse and low. I feel the blood pumping everywhere in my body. My vision blurs. A panic attack is waiting to happen. _Focus_.

"Damian," I manage, "_how have you been?_"

To my surprise, he finally seems _aware_. As if he was processing this question for the first time, he frowns and allows his gaze to wander around us, waiting for the answer to come to him from _somewhere_. It takes him a while. "I… I got _hurt_." It might have been a _question_, as far as I can tell. Damian himself doesn't appear so certain, a minute, until he repeats – "I got hurt. I'm fine now."

"Your phone?"

"Broken. Crushed." He pauses. "I'm _sorry_, Colin." That's _new_. "I should have told you."

"I missed you. I was _worried_." I can't tell which one of us my snapping hit the most. Damian opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything. I'm all nervous again. Fighting is definitely _not_ what I came here for. I swallow the lump in my throat, exhale without haste. My tone is hesitant when I speak. "Damian… It's alright. You're _alive_, and I can go with that. Won't pull the reasons for that long silence out of you, but please know, please _accept_ the fact that I'm here if you want to talk, or if you need something. _Anything_. I am sorry you got hurt. I care. I'll listen." For the untrained eye, Damian doesn't respond. But I know better. I can see he's alert, _listening_ to me. Loosening, even. That's enough to boost my confidence. He doesn't _have_ to answer. "That being said," I smile, "I've brought _things_ for you. Nothing fancy, as you can guess. Still…"

"I will get a new phone."

"Yes?"

"You _missed_ me. You said."

There are hint of his usual self, in his thick intonation. Damian always had that distinctive pitch I'd never get tired of. "_I said_," I agree. "And I _mean_ it. Here." I open my bag and grab Rory out of it, presenting him to Damian. His puzzled look is almost sweet, despite the dark circles under his eyes. I put on a grin. "His name's Rory. He's a friend."

"It's a _teddy bear_."

"Yes. He is _also_ a friend. My only one before I met _you_…" I hold my breath, an instant. Damian looks a bit uncertain. "You get me," I aver. "You _know_. Anyway, that's Rory, and from now on he'll be _your_ friend too. He protects and he soothes. That's what he does."

"Colin…"

"We _talked_." I emphasize, smirking. "Told him somebody _needed_ him, so he might consider a change of home for a while. He doesn't mind. It's his duty, so that's okay, he'll fulfill it. He knows _how_." Damian cautiously inspects the old plush I wave in front of him. Unfortunately, Titus is more interested in catching Rory than remaining quiet. I hear the dog grunt.

"No, Titus!" I warn. "Rory ain't food, nor a toy…"

"Colin is right, boy. We don't bite _friends_." As unexpected, Damian grabs Rory and places him on top of the sketchbook, at his side. "I will not need it – _him_ –, but _I_ _get you_. I'll keep Rory for now." His expression is so serious that I have no idea what to say. Still, a serious Damian is a _good_ thing.

"Rory has slept with me since as long as I can remember. Keeps the nightmares away."

"Won't you need it yourself?"

"No. You were my sole concern, lately, so… No. It's okay."

Damian's lips pinch together. His eyes are focused on mine, and it's a bit too intense of a stare for me. It is hard to keep the grin on. Finally, I hear him muttering – "شكراً ", and he passes his fingers through his hair. "_Thanks_."

"Don't mention it." I reach inside the bag again. "There's _more_."

"_Band_-_Aids_."

I over-act offended, then laugh. "How did you know?"

"Well, it's _you_," he trails off. He sounds peaceful, somehow. "And I _get_ you, remember?"

"Sure do."

I give him the pack of Band-Aids, which quickly ends up near Rory. I warn Damian;

"You can't put any on Rory, of course. With all this fur of his, it's too much of a pain to take away, once his wounds have healed."

"But how would Rory get _wounded_ in the first place?"

"Nightmares are mighty foes. He is a _grand_ warrior."

Damian represses a real smile. It's rare enough for him, so I appreciate it. My anxious mood has melted, the tension is lighter, and my hands are not shaky anymore. Damian is _alive_.

"_Tuesdays_," I settle. My friend raises an eyebrow, confused. "This is the third thing I brought, Damian. An oath of some sort. On Tuesdays, we'll meet like this – like normal people. Frankly, I am tired of chasing you on Gotham roofs. I'm not as good, or as trained as you are. Also, I can't really speak with you in such settings, and I don't like that. Seeing you this exhausted after weeks of absence isn't nice, either." He flinches. _Grimaces_. "I mean… Yeah. I'm _concerned_. Didn't want to hurt your feelings. It's just that I believe we should meet more often. 'Tis okay if we don't _talk_, on those days. You could draw, or – or do whatever you enjoy doing – and I'll read, or half-ass some homework, and we'll spend time like that. Together."

Damian's expression is definitely tired, and perhaps a little sad. He glances at his hands, at Titus, at the Manor behind me. I patiently wait for his answer. "Tuesdays are fine," he whispers. "We can do that. I'd _allow_ it."

"When you will get a new phone, we can text anytime. Like before. But this isn't the same. 'Sides, you need someone to watch over you, and that's too much of a job for Rory alone. You're quite _intense_, Damian – not in a bad way, of course." Faking assurance is not my strongest feature. I get by anyway. "So I'll lend him a hand, and I'll watch over you. On Tuesdays. When you _allow_ so."

Damian pets Titus in silence. He doesn't look at me. "You're kind," he says. I smile – nothing big. He needs rest, and I have to go back home before the evening roll-call. It's time to take my leave. I try to keep my voice quiet as I address my friend one last time.

"I have to go now, Damian. Sorry about that. I can't be late at Saint Aden."

"I see."

"I'll come back. Tuesday."

"_Tuesday_."

I am about to get up, but Damian brushing my knee with the back of his hand catches my attention, putting my movement on hold. Anxiety builds back.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Take it." Thick and rushed. "The sketchbook. You can take it."

"Can I?" That's a bit unsettling. "I mean – you don't usually let me see your drawings. None of your sketches. For you to offer it today is nice, and to be honest I've been hoping for that to happen for months, but these stuffs I brought by don't call for…"

"_Take it_."

Anger, perhaps sheer panic. Whatever it is that's messing with Damian's voice, I don't like it.

I inhale slowly. "Sorry, Damian. I'll take it. Thank you." I grab the sketchbook after pushing Rory and the Band-Aids box on the grass. I don't open it yet. "Are you going back inside?"

"No." He has already calmed down. "_Fireflies_."

"Right. Fireflies." I get on my feet, wipes away the dirt that landed on my jeans. "I'll see you around, Damian," I softly state. "_Robin_ going out yet?"

"Tomorrow," he nods. "With Hood, near the docks."

"That's good to know."

"Yeah. All good."

I ignore his absent tone. Sketchbook in hand, I wave Damian a small sign he doesn't see, too busy he is contemplating the ground. I can live with that.

Alfred, Barbara and Mister Wayne are still having tea when I step back into the living room. They politely smile at me right from the moment they notice that I am here. This is a bit uneasy.

"Master Colin," the butler says, in his peaceful English accent. "How did this talk go?"

"Uh… Alright, I guess. It was alright. He gave me his sketchbook."

Barbara pours more tea in her cup. Mister Wayne and Alfred exchange a glance that I think can be classified as '_relieved', _with a trace of confusion.

"Good," Mister Wayne speaks. "Thank you, Colin. Damian hasn't talked much, this month. I assume that his phone being out of service also means that you probably hadn't heard from him in a while…"

"It's okay, sir. Damian's alive."

They all tense a little. _Bad move_. Barbara comes to my rescue.

"He _is_ alive, Bruce. Colin is right." She shakes her head, then say in my direction – "It was nice of you to come and cheer Damian up. He can be a tough one."

"Comes with the night bird thing, I suppose."

"_Comes with the night bird thing_." She smirks. "Always had. It's good that you noticed. Do you have time for tea now?"

"I'm afraid I don't. There's a roll-call at Saint Aden, in the evening – well, in two hours. I can't miss it. I _snuck_ _out_ already, so… There's that. I'll just walk to the bus stop and wait for the ride home."

"I can take you home," Alfred proposes. "It is no problem."

"It's alright, really. Thank you for your kindness. I can manage by myself."

The two men want to protest, but Barbara cuts them off – "Very well. We understand. Please take care on the way, you hear me? Do you have enough cash for the ride?"

I smile. "I do. Nothing to worry about."

"Fair enough."

Mister Wayne grunts something that I don't understand. He then gets up from his chair, and holds a hand in front of me. I grab it loosely. Rules of this house are not the easiest to dig.

"Thank you for stopping by," he offers, his voice solemn. "Please come back anytime. Damian needs a friend."

"Thank you, Mister Wayne. Actually, Damian and I agreed to meet up every Tuesday, from now on."

"Damian _agreed_ to that?"

"He did. We're _friends_." Has been a whole _hour_ I didn't sound this stupid. _Had_ to happen again. I hear Barbara call from the table:

"How old are you, Colin?"

"I'm twelve, Miss."

"_Babs _– please. I take it you are attending middle-school classes?"

"I'm, uh… Yes. I do. Studies are not my forte. I'm too caught-up with other things." _Vigilantism_, I could add. But Barbara doesn't need me saying it to know exactly what I mean.

"I see." Her eyes are glowing, in the present light. I wonder if my hair shines the same color than hers. "Anything you'd like to be in the future?"

"Police officer." It came out too certain, and quick, causing me to feel a bit dizzy for a moment. They are all staring at me. "It's… I don't know how long. For the _venom_, I mean. It hasn't run dry yet, but it could, anytime, so I need a back-up plan to keep in the _circuit_. To help – legally. That's why I figured… It's a good option. Sort of. It _helps_."

Barbara's grin is wider now. Mister Wayne and Alfred both appear satisfied by my answer.

"I like you," the young woman states. "I'm _BG_, by the way. And _you_'d make a fine _bird_." I hope my face doesn't turn too pink. I've been told several times that it doesn't suit me at all.

"I take it we will see you next Tuesday, then, Master Colin?" Alfred asks.

"Only if it doesn't bother you, of course. Damian and I can also meet in town, so…" Mister Wayne shakes his head.

"It doesn't bother us, really. _Anytime_ – like I said."

"Thank you, sir." A beat. "I guess I should be going now. Thank you for your hospitality."

Babs laughs, takes a sip of her tea. There is wit in her eyes. Mister Wayne thanks me again, and Alfred insists to walk me to the bus stop. I don't object. I wouldn't know _how_.

We arrive there after fifteen minutes of silence. My mind is preoccupied. When I step right next to the bus sign, I turn to face the old butler, ready to express my gratitude. But the man appears more tired than before. His concern is barely perceptible, yet it doesn't go unnoticed to me.

"Master Colin," he begins, "please do not take it the wrong way, but I insist on driving you from Saint Aden and back, every Tuesday, to avoid you such trouble. The bus ride is longer than should, and I know for a fact that your _resources_ are limited." I can't argue with that, and it _pisses_ _me_ _off_. I try not to show it. Alfred's voice softens. "Please do not feel offended. It was not my intention."

"I know. It's alright. Your offer is indeed nice, but you don't need to do that."

"Yes. I _do_. For Master Damian, for the family. You see, it is my duty to keep them safe, well-fed and well-rested, and I am afraid that I have not been able to perform as impeccable as should since Master Damian's... accident." He flinches at the last word. I bite my tongue. I may not even _want_ to know, at this point. It doesn't seem _pretty_. The butler goes on – "Thank you again for coming all the way here to talk to Master Damian, Colin. He will _listen_ to you. That I can tell. Your help today was greatly appreciated, and will not go forgotten."

"Please _stop_ _that_," I harshly retort. Such _grace_, Wilkes. _Ten_ _points_.

Alfred remains quiet, for a minute. I feel like an idiot. When he breaks the silence, I could almost hug him. "I apologize if we made you feel uncomfortable. To tell you the truth, it came out as a shock to us that Master Damian had _befriended_ someone. Even more so, someone _his_ _age_. This situation is as unexpected as long-awaited. Social ineptness runs in the family."

"And apparently I am not very sociable myself, sir. Sorry that I snapped at you like this."

"It is alright, boy. All is alright. Now, please tell me you will let me drive you, next time. I _insist_."

"In such case…" I blush.

"Although the duty might sometimes fall on one of Master Damian's older brothers," Alfred adds. He is smiling fondly. "They are _gentle_. All of them. Perhaps a bit _intense,_ sometimes…"

"They are Damian's _brothers_," I smirk, my tone sympathetic. "Adoptees or not, he had to come up with that trait from _someone_."

The butler studies me, for a minute. He places a hand on my arm.

"Yes. He _had_ to."

The bus arrives in sight at last. I blink, give a swift sign in Alfred's direction, squeezing the sketchbook closer to my chest.

"Thank you again," I say. "Please tell Damian I haven't changed my phone number, just in case… About Tuesday, should I wait for you in front of Wayne Tower? It's more discreet than the gates of the orphanage…"

"Inside Wayne Tower is an underground parking for the employees. Just give your name at the desk and someone will lead you there. I will be waiting."

"Noon?"

"It is settled." His friendly grin calms me down.

The bus finally stops in front of us. After a last '_goodbye_', Alfred starts to walk away, leaving me to climb onboard the vehicle.

"Hi again, shrimp," the driver grunts. "How did it go?"

Better not make it a habit.


	5. Chapter Three

_Graduated. Moved to the UK. Moved back to Finland. Still a MA student. Fell back into bad anxiety patterns. Did not miss a single bat-family related comic issues this year._

_Hi, I am exhausted. I hope you'll enjoy this. I missed writing – it was just too scary to go back to. Very sorry for the delay. _Thank you_ already to anyone leaving a review. Best of health, friendship and care for 2016. Love and good wishes to you all, dear readers._

* * *

**3\. – **_**Jason Todd**_

Tim fell asleep in my old room, tonight. I shrug it off. Kid's been invading my personal space a _lot_, lately.

It started with breakfast, and the next thing I know, the fucker's been breaking into _every_ single one of my safe houses, and I find him popping up in there at random hours of the day, or sleeping next to me at night. I almost killed him a few times, at first, until I was finally able to recognise within seconds the sound of his quiet breathing, and that little slide his right foot makes when he lifts it up. The _lucky_ brat. A couple more intrusions without me noticing such _crap_, and he would have found himself dumped into Gotham Bay, his body burdened by the bullets I'd have shot right through his pretty head, splashing blood flowers all over his smooth skin. _Hell_, the image ain't so bad. Better shrug this off as well.

I could choose to close the door right now, but Tim did not judge necessary to throw himself _under_ the blanket before passing out. As usual. I could leave him like that. I could decide not to _care_. Instead, I am dumb enough to reach for the cupboard as silently as I can, and to grab a plaid from the lowest drawer and proceed to cover my brother's limp body with it, pushing him further on the bed at the same time. He doesn't even stir. _Sucker_. There are days I'm convinced he does it on purpose, to catch me doing something _nice_ for him, or whatever of this kind. But I quickly leave the idea behind. Kid knows _better_. We spent too many dates watching our gestures too closely, listening to the way we kept our words measured, staying away from the holy family _minefield_, discovering that a warm hand to hold could work miracle in overwhelming times. So in our cases, _often_. I repress a dark snort, biting my lower lip, peek at the sleeping silhouette. Feel myself grimacing.

Tim looks _old_. Older than _Bruce_, even. There's always much going on in this incredible brain of his, and sometimes it consumes him so that he loses common sense and he _breaks into my room_. Calls for help, mumbles nonsense. He acts – and _believes_ to be – so balanced all the time that he doesn't know how to fall, but there's a ground under his feet, a damn hard concrete his mind might hit one day. He might not care; not much really. He forgets that I am the danger and hopes that I'd pick up the pieces of his miserable self.

Truth is, I might just do that. I might even _like_ it.

I switch the lamp off, on the bedside table, lightly wipe Tim's bangs away from his forehead. Breathe, in and out.

"Jay." _Figures_.

"Tell me."

"Don't go. Damian's not ready, and neither are you." His words are slow and slurred. I draw my hand back and kneel down to get closer.

"Come on, bro," I whisper. "'Tis alright. I've got this. Demon brat will be fine."

"Did Bruce ask you to do this?"

I frown. My fingers entwine in discomfort. Tim's blue eyes are set on me. "He did," I admit. "'Cause _Damian_ asked him to. Kiddo seems to think I'd get easier on him than _daddy_ would, or something."

Tim sustains my gaze for a while, before slipping back into unconsciousness. I adjust the plaid up to his chin. One less birdling to worry about.

* * *

Damian is already perched on his bike when I arrive in the cave. His baleful look does not lighten the mood. Behind the computer, B is pretending to read a random file on the screens he observes with insistence. He cannot hide from us, though. He is concerned. He should be indeed. The kid and I never patrolled together – not just the two of us. Damian would not listen to me, I would yell at him for the most part, we would blow buildings up, the night would end in blood… Well, _maybe_. There is no way to tell for sure, so just in case, we didn't pair up much. To be honest I am loath to find out what tonight will bring. Damian is a _mess_, if I am one to talk.

"_Jason_," I hear Bruce growl, "please stay close. No bold move. There is no sign of major crime coming up, but if anything happens, contact us immediately and wait for back-up to arrive before jumping into action. Always keep Damian in sight and avoid…"

"B. Chill." Although my tone was meant to ease the tension, I can feel the man stiffen. "Years on the job. We'll be careful."

But Bruce _is_ concerned. He leans back on his seat and sighs, deep and slow. There is nothing I could say that would help him relax right now. So I shut up. I pat him on the shoulder, _swift and gentle_, and drag myself in front of Damian. The kid barely nods in acknowledgement.

"Alright, brat," I greet him cheerfully. "Tonight's mission is all about swinging between buildings for a couple hours, making sure that no crook is left running free on the street, perhaps taking time to grab some junk food because why not, and most importantly coming back here safe and sound. Routine stuff."

He _nods_. 'Guess that's the only conversation he'll grace me with for now.

"Okay. _Great_. Let's do it then."

"Boys," Bruce calls, turning his seat to face us, "Batgirl is patrolling now, and I would be ready within minutes if necessary."

We wait for more, as there always is; but nothing comes. Bruce looks down at his feet, focusing nowhere in particular, massaging his temples. He seems to be chewing on his tongue as he lets the silence ring on a little longer. Finally, he reports his attention back to the screens, waving us goodbye.

* * *

I tried. I really did. We spent about two hours wrapped in the comfort of the sounds of the city, without exchanging words, and it seemed alright, and then it wasn't. Damian's _too much_ like me this time. Like _old_ me. I tried and tried and bit my tongue so hard it bled, but in the end I could not force myself not to ask him questions. Nothing pushy, and _yet_. I knew it bothered him. '_How's life? How's drawing? Who's that Little Orphan Annie-boy thing we sometimes see around? How's school? What's your favourite poem?_' – It went on for a while. He replied to none of it, we met no threat serious enough to diffuse the situation, and suddenly I felt too exhausted to carry on. Bruce checked in, from time to time. I had nothing to tell him. After thirty minutes straight without meeting anyone, jumping from one building to another as we progressed further through the city from the docks, I motioned for Damian to stop moving. He obeyed. It felt _awful_. His expression was vaguely annoyed, but at least he was listening.

"The night's quiet," I declared. "We'll order hot chocolate, I know a place nearby. Just a few minutes, alright? You, me, hot chocolate on a roof. No fight, no more _questions_ – I swear. Then we'll return home. B would want us back early, and so will it happen. Sounds cool?" He considered my words for a moment. I thought best to add: "We did well. Eh, ten people down, the GCPD meeting its quota, two puppies in good hands… That was a good night. You fought well. We can rest now."

And so he nodded. He looked sort of content, almost ready to get into a name-calling fight with me.

I wish he would have.

* * *

Damian is _fast_, I'll give him that. It should bother me that the man we are running after is just as skilled in this area, but at this point, nothing makes sense to me, and all I can think about is that I _must_ catch my brother before it's too late. It was not supposed to go down like that.

On the way to this old joint I always order hot chocolate (and expensive whiskey) from, we encountered a situation. Two men dragging a little girl in an alley. _Perfect_. Damian saw them first and dropped from his line in an instant. He landed directly on one of the thugs. Must have hurt. Knocked the man out, yet did not scare his pal. This one had a gun in hand and he promptly pointed it at the girl. Shot without a word. It shocked Damian enough that he did not come to his senses before I made it to the spot and confirmed that poor kid's death. The man broke into a run. Damian followed, and so did I.

After about two miles into the oddest chase of my vigilante career, we arrive in front of a tall building with a few lights on behind the curtains. Poor families, night shifts starting soon. I pray for the man not to enter any of these flats as he makes his way inside. Damian trails him pretty close. They both disappear up on the spiral staircase. Bruce's stern voice chooses this exact moment to reach my ears.

"Hood? What are you…"

"_Can't_," I huff. "Running. Murder. Robin outta hand. Hood out."

He shouts something, but I can't make it out. I shut the thing off. Climbing the steps four by four, I can see the two others are about to reach the roof. Given their respective pace, Damian will catch the guy. If not before, then right after this door opens. There is no telling what he will do to him, and so I hurry, hurry even more, and I think about Tim and how he was so right, how he is always right. I need a cigarette. My escapees make it through the door and I wait for a sound to tell me that this is over. That I have _failed_. But once again, _nothing_ _comes_. It is just me and the echoes of my steps, which is worse in every way. When I reach the door, Damian is standing still in its frame. A few steps away, our guy is holding his gun high, aiming at us with a smug smile on his face. That's when I see it. His _hand_. The patterns someone drew on it are familiar. He's one of Talia's men.

"Gotham division," he offers. "We're expanding. Hello, Damian. And whoever you are."

"Yes, _hi_," I spit. Damian is frozen in place. Pressing the button in my gloves demanding for the commissioner to come here ASAP, I carefully move in front of the boy. If anything, my vest will block the bullets. "_Fuckhead_," I go on. "Or _whoever you are_. Let go of this gun now, alright? You've done enough for tonight. I wouldn't want to put you to sleep _forever_ before the GCPD comes – and spoiler alert, that was a _lie_. Not joking. Ten seconds."

The fucker's grin grows wider as he fishes into the back pocket of his pants. His attention shifts for a second, which is enough for me to grab a gun with my right hand and to aim at him. He remains unfazed, though. A mobile phone in his hand, he quietly browses through the files. I don't like where this is going. The GCPD will be here soon, but they might be too late. Behind me, Damian is trembling. He _knows_. _What_ or _how_, or _why_, no idea. Kid _simply_ _knows_ how this will play out, and he is close to a breakdown. It has to stop. I load my gun.

"Drop the gun and the phone _now_, you f…"

"You're _pretty_, Damian."

Figures. _Figures_. It _had_ to get there.

"Like your mother," the man goes on. "Shame you turned your back on her."

I cannot move. I try. I try and try and fail. Damian is about to _kill_.

"_That_," a tap on the phone screen Talia's bitch turns our way, "is what happens to _silly_ boys. Silly _little_ boys who do not know love when it hits them in…"

The kid jumps. At the same time, the assassin shoots in our direction, and it wakes my limbs up. I yank Damian on my chest before I can register the action, take the bullet in my left hand, and pull the trigger. Straight in the pig's head.

* * *

It takes me a moment to adjust. I cannot feel my left hand. Damian is still confined in the nest I made for him between my chest and my left arm. He is quivering, almost dangerously. Cannot tell if it is frustration, sadness or a mix of both.

I killed again. Bruce will be mad.

Damian steps away from me, his movements mechanical and paced. I let him. When he begins to walk towards the dead guy in front of us, I whisper:

"It's over, Robin. It's _over_. It's alright. We need to go – you hear me? Grab some _things_ and go. Gordon will be here soon. It's _alright_. Do you hear me?"

No. He doesn't. He stops in front of the man and picks the phone up. "Rob… _Dami_…" I plead.

It's no use. Damian stares at the phone for a while, before it is reduced to broken pieces in his fist he closed too tight. In my mind I count to ten, and that's seven too much. Damian is stepping on the phone remains with increasing force, until he reaches for his belt and picks up a knife from one of the pockets. Drops on his knees. Is at the man's throat, guts, _everything_. It is a bloodshed it takes me too long to react to. Of course I do, _eventually_. Damian has stuck the knife in the corpse's chest and is kicking his head hard when I pull him near, careful not to do it too fast or too strong. He is not even breathing.

"Okay, Damian," I softly chant. "_Alright_. It's over now. He's dead. It's alright. Step back. I've got you. It's alright. _I've got you_." And so on. _And so on_. I feel him leaning in, gradually, retrieving his breath as he does so. He stops kicking. _He is a mess_. The sirens of the GCPD scream from a few blocks away. Under the sound, much lower, I can hear Damian frenetically mumbling something in Arabic. I wrap the boy in my arms and tilt my head to catch his words.

"Damian?"

" منزل"

_Home_. I hold him closer.

* * *

There was a poem printed on a pamphlet a beautiful woman gave me when I visited Egypt, two years ago. It made me sad and angry. That day, I had to call Alfred to remember that Bruce was not the one I wanted to be around at the time. I buried the memory for the rest of the travel, but after I landed back in Gotham and spilled the content of my bag on a cheap motel bed, my eyes found the poem again, and it left me with a feeling of nostalgia so strong that I texted Bruce on a whim. It was nothing much. '_How are you_', '_You just came to my mind'_, '_I wish we could go back in time so you would adopt me sooner, and at last I could tell you about every fear and dirty secret I have held onto too tight since the day you brought me home'_… Honestly, I don't remember. I was super-drunk, the phone got lost wherever I threw it right after I pressed '_send'_. Point is, it was a nice read, and perhaps it would comfort Damian a little now that we made it back. I hate myself so much. It's not this damn man's death. It's not Bruce yelling at me, venom tangled with each word. It's me letting Damian down because I cannot remember a _stupid poem_.

"Jason?" Bruce's voice is a bit quieter. I have not paid attention. He knows that.

"Yeah. _Yeah_. Go on."

My eyes are locked on Damian's. His expression betrays his worries and nervousness. His _guilt_. To my surprise, Bruce doesn't carry on with his lecture. Instead, he sucks in a long breath, releases the pressure he kept in, and simply comes to sit in front of me. Not sure if this change is a good or a bad thing.

"Your hand is still bleeding, Jay."

"Yeah. Bullet's still in."

"Alfred will be here soon. He'll help with that."

"We lost a kid, B. Seven or eight, cute brown curls."

"And that's not your fault. I know it's not." Bruce pauses. "But the man…"

"One of Talia's."

It occurs to me that I have not mentioned much of the night. Main line, no details. Bruce is beyond angry now. Better tell him everything.

"He insulted Damian. Had some _pictures_ of him on the phone I gave you. Well – the _pieces_ I gave you. Either way."

Bruce's face is unreadable. His eyes are begging me to say something, to admit a joke, perhaps, or something of this kind. I feel bad for not being able to give in to this wish.

"He was a bad man, B." I whisper. "Look, I am sorry I disappointed you. I truly am. But the situation was getting worse by the second. Damian was scared. _Very_ scared."

Some shadow crosses Bruce's face at my words. _Stupid_ _Jason_.

"Damian," he repeats. "What did _he_ do?"

On the stairs, the boy has buried his face between his knees. At least I do not have to lie.

"He did _not _pull the trigger."

* * *

"Quite the night, Master Jason."

"Quite the night indeed."

Bruce didn't add anything after I spoke. Didn't deal with the problems at hand, as it often happens in this house. He stayed with me, in silence, until Alfred showed up. After that he went to pick Damian up from the stairs where the kid had fallen asleep, and returned to the Manor.

End of the act.

"I tried, Alfie."

"And it is alright to fail," comes a soothing response. "Although, if I may, it does not appear to be the case tonight. You brought Master Damian home, after all."

"I shot a man. _Again_."

Alfred doesn't reply to that. It's okay, though. Watching him doing his best to heal my wound is enough to make me feel a bit better, despite everything.

That's when it comes back to me. The poem.

"Do you think I can drop by Damian's room before I go?"

"Go _where_, Master Jason?" He actually sounds offended. "You can visit him. Master Bruce will not mind, I am certain. However, you are staying here tonight."

"Yeah, _that_ Bruce might not agree with…"

"Master Bruce does _not_ run this house. He only believes so."

I can't help but chuckle.

* * *

Damian's room is as much a mess as his life has become. It hurts a bit too much and I might just clean it all for him, first thing when I wake up.

Bruce is adjusting the covers around the small figure for what could be the hundredth time since he carried him here. Somehow, I'm glad he _learned_. If he can be a good father to _one_ of us at least, it is enough. We other can manage.

"Sorry to barge in like that. Wanted to leave a note to Damian."

"Sure thing."

I grab a pen and a piece of paper from the drawing desk. My Arabic is rusty, but hopefully the letters will be readable enough. It's only a line. Can't remember who wrote that. Bruce casts a curious look at the paper as I put it on Damian's nightstand. I clear my throat.

"وطن المرء ليس مكان ولادته و لكنه المكان الذي تنتهي فيه كل محاولاته للهروب"

This would have been awkward if the events of the night weren't that dull already. 'Sides, I did not stutter, which is a little victory. Bruce asks me to repeat, and I do, in a lighter tone. He then cracks a small smile.

"You know, I tried to speak Arabic with Damian, _once_. That was at first, when he was… Well, you know how he was. I thought he would accept me more as a father if I showed him that I cared about him and his history. This trick didn't worked, though. In his head, Arabic was the link between him and a bad world, not a bundle of literature and stories to learn from. He got mad, so I never did it again. I forgot about it until recently, when I noticed that he has came back to these roots on his own. Books, community meetings - _writing_, even. I might never be welcome into this world of his, but it is comforting to see him trying to find a truce between who he was, and who he could become."

There is nothing I can add to this, so I nod a couple times. Bruce returns the gesture.

"Thank you," he says, with a hint of fondness. "Tonight was… _difficult_. I am sorry that I lectured you unjustly."

"No biggie."

"_Liar_."

Yeah. Maybe.

"_Maybe_. Anyway, I'm beat. Gonna follow birdie's example and sleep."

"I don't suppose Alfred would let you go back to wherever you live now?"

"No, he won't. And you _know_ where I live."

"I do. Nice apartment."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Bruce caresses my arm gently as I exit the room and make my way towards the bed I left Tim in earlier. Nerd has not moved an inch. _Sucker_.

* * *

_"Home is not where you were born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease" – Omar Taher_


	6. Chapter Four - part 1

**Every winter, I re-read several times a week the arc of **_**Streets of Gotham**_** in which Colin makes an appearance. I miss him so much. **

**Hope you'll enjoy this chapter~! =) Please leave a review if you have a couple minutes to spare. There seem to have been some issues here, these past few days, resulting in some reviews not displaying at all; however please rest assure that I always receive your feedback with much joy, anticipation and gratitude.**

* * *

**4.1 – **_**Colin Wilkes**_

I woke up yesterday to the sound of my phone receiving a text. It read '_Fixed'_, and nothing more. _Damian_. I quickly replied with a simple '_Great! Morning by the way. Looking forward to meeting you tomorrow._' He did not write me back. It did not bother me. By now I am used to receive only one message for every four or five I send him, and frankly, it is alright. If a part of me can't help but feeling annoyed at this routine, the other one knows that Damian is a busy person, but most importantly fairly new at this whole friendship thing. And so since the beginning – more exactly since I purchased a phone – I write to him too often, without expectations, at any time of the day or the night, for matters ranging from the most trivial things to personal issues I can't deal with properly yet. I saw a nice book about watercolour painting in an old shop, a while back, so I texted him the address. I spotted birds coming back from the South on a warm spring night, last year, so I thought adequate to inform Damian that summer _might_ arrive within a few months time. No idea how he kept talking to me after this brilliant remark. One time I even asked him out on a date. Not a _date_-date, but I used this word (I'm an _imbecile_), to which my favourite robin immediately replied '_Watch your phrasing, Colin. Should we treat ourselves to ice cream later today?_' I was the happiest dork on the block.

Then, a couple months ago, I called Damian in the middle of a rainy night. I was scared and lonely, Rory in the arms of a toddler who had kept on crying all through dinnertime earlier that evening. Damian, on the other side of the line, had just come back from patrol. He sounded irritated. He didn't let me say much before he started to bitch about his parents' feud. It lasted a few minutes or so, until I burst into sobs even I had no idea what for. Damian went mute. We stayed like that for about half an hour, and I kept on apologising for nothing in particular between uncontrollable hiccups. I almost hoped for Damian to stop the call. He didn't. Instead, he waited for me to calm down enough to hear him say:

"Ditch school tomorrow, okay? We'll go anywhere. We'll do anything." His tone was quiet. Not too dry, nor babying. After a moment of silence, he _shyly _added: "Sorry, Colin. I'm bad at this. I know. Please be patient with me, I swear I'll get better."

I didn't need '_better'_. Still don't. Damian came to pick me up the following day, in the garage he bought for me after our first meeting. I was restless and nervous, so he took us to the city aquarium. Said it always made him feel at peace to wander in there – and yeah, I got that. The place was comforting. That day, I felt cared for. That was more than ever asked.

So clingy, Wilkes. Childish and _needy_. Can't help it just yet, however, as it is now quarter to noon, _Tuesday_, and Wayne Tower stands in front of me. I don't even attempt to see how tall it is. Bet I couldn't anyway. The main entrance is guarded by several men in suits who are looking at me with clear suspicion, as I predicted this morning in a definitely inspired text that I sent to Damian: '_But will they let me enter there? I'm like, twelve._' No idea – really _none_ – as to why he bears with me.

My legs are shaking when I drag myself to the automatic doors. The security guards' stares are wary. I try to ignore them as I cross the threshold, and walk through the metal detector then straight to the first counter in sight. A young man is sitting behind it. His eyes study me several times before I realise that I have started to sway a little, keeping my mouth shut. I pinch my arm to step out of it. Doesn't have much effect.

"H-hi? Hi," I articulate. "Sorry. I have a… an appointment." The guy's disbelief is obvious. Can't blame him for that. "With… Oh, right. My name. Wilkes? Colin Wilkes. They said someone would be waiting for me."

He nods, still doubtful, and peers into a register on his desk. I can see his surprise when he finds my name there.

"Of course," he coos, a fake smile on his lips. "Mister Wilkes, yes, we were waiting for you. If you would please follow my colleague Beth, over there? She is to take you to the parking downstairs. Have a nice day!"

I thank him and walk to a short brunette reading something on a tablet. There's a lift behind her. The woman raises her chin to look at me as I approach, immediately plastering a welcoming expression on her face. Her voice is sweet, somewhat sincere.

"Good morning, sir. It is nice to finally meet you." Now, _that_ is awkward. "My name is Beth. We were informed that you would come here weekly, is that correct?"

"Y-yeah. It is."

"Wonderful," she smiles. "I will show you the way to the parking today. It is very simple, but were you to forget it at anytime, please do not hesitate to inform Elias, whom you met, that you would require assistance. He will be _happy_ to help, I am certain."

I let out a half-polite, half-heartfelt chuckle.

"Why, Elias and I will soon be the best of friends," I muse, "don't you think?"

She laughs lightly, her eyes almost closing as she does so. She seems friendly enough.

"Let's keep our hopes up," she nods. "If you would you please follow me?"

We enter the lift. When the doors close, Beth indicates me to watch her movements as she presses '_P-1_' on the button panel. Ten seconds later, the doors open again, an underground parking in front of us. Beth's attention comes back to her tablet.

"That's it," she grins. "You have arrived."

I shake my head and smile politely. Suddenly someone I don't know is calling my name from about two dozen feet away. A young man, short stature, is standing behind the open door, right side, of a shiny grey car.

"Timothy Drake-Wayne," Beth offers. "A good man, you'll see. It was nice meeting you, sir."

"Same thing, Beth. My regards to Elias."

She shoots me an amused look. I wave her goodbye and jog to the car. I stutter a mere '_Hi' _when I reach it, uncertain of what to say. Timothy's tone is warm when he returns my salutations.

"Thank you for coming over, Colin."

He signifies me that I can open the door to the seat behind his. I oblige. There is another man on the backseat, older than Timothy, with pretty blue eyes and well-defined hands. Richard? Probably Richard. Damian always talks about the man with such liking and admiration that I smile widely at the kind '_Hey'_ the man welcomes me with. Alfred is sitting behind the wheels. We exchange greetings as Timothy sits back inside, buckles his seat belt, and declares '_All set'_.

* * *

"Master Colin, pardon me asking, but aren't you supposed to attend school on Tuesdays?"

"I am, actually. But it's alright. The school is not the safest in town and the teachers are discouraged, so I do better on my own… Well, with some help from Damian. A _lot_ of help. Guess I'm not on the smart side."

"If you managed to capture Damian's attention for this long, Colin, you _are_ on the smart side." Richard sounds genuine. I blush in embarrassment. "Trust us on that one. Tough bird, not many interests, quickly bored. If I recall, we met over a year ago already, right?"

"We did. It was that case with Zsasz…" _And your name was Batman_.

"Yeah," he grimaces. "_That one_."

Wilkes, you _idiot_. Timothy comes to my rescue, turning his head to face us.

"Say, Colin, how often do you patrol these days?"

"Not much really. Many new kids arrived at the orphanage, lately. Some are still infants, most are very young, so the oldest residents – me included – are too busy helping the nuns. It's not bad, though. Kids are funny. I usually go out one night a week, two sometimes, but that's it. Went out more a few weeks ago, looking for Damian."

"I see."

It started to rain shortly after we left the Tower. Gotham is busy. Although I was a little tense at first, chatting with the three men seems more relaxing now.

Timothy is different than I imagined. Damian was never impartial in his description, which made it hard for me to picture a proper portrait of the man. I can finally say that I enjoy his personality, his jokes. Richard's, too. He is more openly caring than Timothy, and from what I gathered while listening to the stories Damian told me about him, just as serious and responsible as a good dad would be. At least I _assume_ so. I push the unhappy thoughts away, hearing Timothy asking:

"Has Damian messaged you today?"

"No, he hasn't. Which is nice, actually, because I texted him twice this morning and made a fool of myself both times."

The two young men laugh at my words. Alfred smiles softly.

"Been there, done that," Richard admits, to what Timothy jokes –

"What, like it got better?"

"It's not like that," I rush.

"We know, we know." Richard pats my arm. "Sorry, we tend to tease the younger kids."

"'_The younger kids'_…"

"Tim!"

The journey ends soon. We pass the gates under a heavy rain, the Manor looking ghostly in the rising mist. Alfred parks the car close to the main door, which opens to reveal Bruce Wayne. He seems relieved to see us.

"Hello, boys. Come in before you catch a cold."

We agree, and hurry inside. The manor is not as bright as I remember it, with such a bad weather casting dull lights through the windows. A violin is playing somewhere upstairs. After I get rid of my coat, Bruce Wayne puts a hand on my shoulder, his touch cautious.

"Nice to see you again, Colin. Damian is waiting for you in his room."

"Thank you, sir."

"I will bring tea and sandwiches up there in a moment," Alfred states. "But first, I shall perhaps show you the way, young sir?"

"It's Damian, isn't it? Playing the violin."

"Indeed."

"Alright. Yeah. Thank you Alfred, but I don't wanna bother you. I'll just follow the sound? If that's okay, I mean."

'_Is having a penniless, street-type twelve-year-old part-time-vigilante wandering in your shiny castle okay?'_ would have been the appropriate question.

"Of course it is," Mister Wayne nods. "If you get lost, just give us a shout. You might also run into Jason, he has been staying here on and off lately. I am not sure whether you two are acquainted."

"Not as civilians yet, no. But he checks up on me during patrol, from time to time. I guess we live quite close."

"In fact, you do. Good call."

"If I may interrupt this conversation," Alfred says. "In the event of an encounter with Master Jason, would _any_ of you please remind him _nicely_ that breakfast is not an option in this house?"

"Of course, Alfred."

The butler disappears, Richard and Tim on his toes. Bruce Wayne gestures toward a set of stairs, further down the hallway, in the opposite direction. I thank him and follow the way.

* * *

Damian's room is easy to locate. The music gets louder, and I find it lovely enough that I walk slower and slower as I get closer to my destination. When the notes die, I am at the door. I knock on it three times, not too strongly.

"Damian?" I call. "Can I come in?"

Two seconds later, the door opens for me. Damian, violin in hand, his hair unruly but his eyes alert, actually seems fairly pleased to see me.

"Hi." His voice still sounds hoarse, unused. I wonder if he ever talks to his family these days. I certainly hope so.

"Hi yourself. You play beautifully."

"Shut up…"

I laugh at his grumpy tones. He steps aside to let me in. I notice Rory on Damian's bedside table, and scattered music notes on the desk.

"What is it you were playing?"

"An arrangement of Chris de Burgh's _A Spaceman Came Traveling_."

"Well, I like it. Is it what you'll do today? Music?"

Damian considers the question for a moment, before he shakes his head, putting the violin back into its case on the bed.

"No," he whispers. "Since you are here, I'd rather help you with homework, or draw."

I nod in silence. I cannot tell if talking about his sketchbook now, or ever, would be a good idea. Just in case, to avoid a bad move, I did not even bring it along with me. I asked Damian if I should, yesterday, in yet another clever text ('_Your drawings are so nice, I would like all of them tattooed on my skin. That doesn't sound too weird, right? Do you want your sketchbook back?_'), but as expected I received no answer. Hopefully he won't ask for it today. As Damian closes the door, I sit awkwardly on the red carpet, nearby the window, waiting for my friend to join me here. He does so shortly, pencils, brushes, a box of liquid watercolour ink and a brand new sketchbook in hand. He is thinner than before.

"Do you eat properly?" I inquire.

Damian eludes the question. I take it that means "_no_".

* * *

The next couple hours pass without any incident. Damian sketches while I unsurprisingly struggle to understand basic Chemistry. Alfred came in with tea and sandwiches, as promised, and I managed to convince my friend to drink and eat a decent amount. Of that I'm sort of proud. Damian talks very little, so I keep the conversation alive for the both of us, babbling about random things, complaining about school and telling him stories of my past solo patrols. He maintains a neutral expression, but he _is_ listening. I am in the middle of a boring anecdote about the two-year-old orphan twins I had to share my room with last Friday night when Damian murmurs, edgy:

"It's not true that I got _hurt_."

His eyes are avoiding mine. _Alright_. I push my homework aside and get up to sit next to him, which only makes him more nervous. I keep my voice as low and warm as I can when I reply:

"I know. But you're okay now, aren't you? Getting there." He acquiesces absently. After a pause, I add: "How did your patrol go, last week?"

This time he shoots a death glare at me, and these deep green eyes, now so full of hatred, send shivers of fear through every cell in my body. I freeze. Bad, _terrible_ _move_, Wilkes. Comforting words die in my throat. I wait for a punch, some yelling, anything; but nothing happens. Damian takes a deep breath and grabs my left wrist with his left hand, reaching for a brush with his right one. He dips it into red ink, dilutes the colour in the small glass of water Alfred brought him. Lifting my forearm up, gently, he pushes the fabric of my shirt up to my elbow, and starts to paints on the exposed skin. His brushstrokes are unhurried, precise, his expression stern. I don't dare saying anything, in fear to break whatever is starting to get repaired.

Regularly, Damian picks up other colours from the bottles laid in front of us. He is not drawing anything in particular, but the pattern he creates is complex and beautiful. Red remains the main hue. On several occasions, Damian hesitates to paint over some particularly noticeable areas where too many freckles mark my skin. I once confessed to him how much I hated this physical trait of mine. His offended expression right after I dropped this piece of trivia made me feel both embarrassed and happy for a whole month. Today Damian doesn't paint over the freckles. Instead, after deliberation, he decides to contour them so that they become part of the pattern, their shades matching the palette he is going with.

We stay like that for about twenty minutes, until Damian is finally done embellishing my forearm. Some of the ink, too liquid, is falling on the carpet, spilling on the sketchbook, sliding over Damian's fingers. He doesn't seem to care, though. He releases his hold and carefully grabs my left hand, on which he starts painting brown leaves.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not angry, or anything. Perhaps a little stressed is all."

I put on a reassuring smile, shaking my head.

"It's alright. I asked a bad question."

"No, you didn't. It's just… It didn't go well. Patrol was a mess. Without Jason to stop me at the last second, I could have done… wrong. Like _before_, you know?" _I do. _"It's like no matter whether I suppress or embrace what I feel, nothing works out, and I am sent back into a spiral of nightmares and distrust." He pauses. "My father is looking at me and talking to me as though I might fall apart anytime. Richard is avoiding me. I don't need _any_ of this."

I don't ask Damian what he needs. Perhaps there isn't even an answer to that. Before I can stop myself, I let my head fall on his shoulder, an uncomfortable position I nevertheless intend to keep as long as he doesn't push me away.

So, _yeah_, I _might_ have a thing for him. Been a while. Sue me.

"We're all so bad at _this_, Colin," I hear Damian sigh, desperate and quiet. "The whole 'caring, mending and dealing with emotional issues' trait doesn't run in the family. I am starting to understand how Jason became who he is."

"Speaking of Jason, does _he_ avoid you?

Damian puts the brush down, keeps my hand over his. The ink takes a while to dry.

"No, he doesn't." There's a hint of gratitude in his words. "After patrol, I woke up to him cleaning my room and calling me names – a normal conversation for us. He has been spending a lot of time here, as of late. I haven't told him that, or _anything_ for that matter, but I prefer it this way. It feels safer when he is around. I am also impressed by the amount of fights my father and him have _not_ started nor even eluded since Jason moved back."

I hum in understanding. Damian lets go of my hand, keeping his on his knees.

"I am sorry to complain about my family to you, all the time. It can't be right, given your situation. It's selfish of me."

"No, it's okay. You have them, and I get it, sometimes it hurts more to have help at hand yet being unable to reach out for it, than to have no one at all. But your family _is_ within reach, Damian. They also _want_ to help. You should talk to them. Start with Richard, perhaps? He seems very kind."

"I'd rather talk to _you_."

Damian pushes me away, his movement careful. His eyes are sad when he amends:

"I _would_ talk to you. You are reliable, and you put up with me despite… _me_. You always had. You are a brother, Colin." I'd take _that_, I suppose. "But I have not figured anything out, so far. I don't know what to do, or what to tell you. Besides, I want you to keep thinking of me as whoever you believe I am."

"Why wouldn't I?"

His weary eyes set on mine. '_Please shut up'_, they seem to say. I comply with this plea.

"Sorry about the paint. Soap and water will erase it in to time."

"Actually, I like it." I grin, my tone mischievous. "Told you I wanted your sketches all over me, didn't I?"

He instantly smiles, biting his lower lip.

"You're a weird one, Wilkes."

* * *

Around four, Sister Agnes calls me. Although she cannot hide her exasperation, her angry threats are rendered ineffective by the twin toddlers in her office, who both start to cry at the mention of my name. Better get there before they convince themselves that I abandoned the ship. Ending the call, slightly bothered, I inform Damian of the situation. He accepts it, resigned. I know he doesn't like long goodbyes, so we just shake hands in the hallway, steps away from his room.

"I forgot to ask you if you wanted Rory back," he mumbles.

"No, thank you. I'll be alright. Now that you have a phone again, I know I can text you anytime if I'm lonely, so… Yeah. Plus you appear to be more rested than last week. Told you Rory was _awesome_."

He tilts his head, his expression blank. We've hit our quota of jokes for the day, apparently, so I leave it at that. I smile at him one last time and wave him goodbye, before I walk all the way back to the stairs and down. Bruce Wayne and his butler are talking to a tall twenty-something man – _Jason_ – in front of the main door. The conversation seems relaxed. I clear my throat when I am within hearing distance, although I suspect they all already spotted me before that.

"Sorry," I apologise, "but I must go. Two babies are waiting for me in St Aden."

"Oh, yeah," Jason snorts. "That doesn't sound _bizarre_ at all. Nice meeting civilian you, Little Red. You are _much_ less intimidating like this."

"Master Jason," Alfred scolds.

Mister Wayne sighs, before turning to me.

"Thank you for spending the afternoon here. Hopefully you will not get in trouble for _ditching_." My heart skips a beat. The _Batman_ grins a little. "Will we see you next week?"

"Maybe? I'm not sure. Damian and I are yet to discuss what our plans for next Tuesday are."

"Very well." I can see that he hesitates to ask something else. Doesn't take a detective reputation to deduce _what_.

"Damian and I had a nice time," I assure him. Pushing my sleeve back, I reveal my painted forearm and hand. "My skin makes a fine canvas, according to him."

Jason looks amused. Alfred and Mister Wayne smile appreciatively.

"That's good to know. Thank you."

"Perhaps I could drive you home now, Master Colin?"

"Nah, I've got this." Jason's tone is assured. Both of the older men are about to protest, but he cuts in: "Please get in the car, Annie. You'll make it home unharmed. Robin's honour."

Guess nothing can beat that.

* * *

"While it will most certainly get me in trouble, I am dying for a smoke right now. Bothers you if I have one?"

"Be my guest."

Jason drives on every road necessary to transform a relatively short ride into a long one. I don't mind. I understand him. His left hand fishes a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. He puts one between his lips, lights it, and presents the open pack to me. I smirk at the gesture.

"I'm twelve, Jason. I don't smoke."

"First, that's a _lie_." Or only _half_ of one. "Second, wanna know what I was doing when I was twelve?"

There's no bragging in his voice, and _damn straight I wanna know_. Not about to tell him that, though. I politely decline his offer once again. He doesn't insist. Truth is that I could use a drag or two, but I doubt Damian would like it if the habit stayed. I want Damian to like me.

"How was birdie today?"

"Better. We talked for a while. He told me you moved back to the Manor?"

"This is only temporary. Not some full-time thing, either. But yeah, I did."

"He is thankful for that."

"Yeah, I betcha." He takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales. "You've seen them, haven't you? They all talk about him and _to_ him as if a tap on his forehead would have him burst into a thousand puzzle pieces. Well, all except Alfie, of course. Blessed be goodness for Alfred Pennyworth."

He drives slower than I figured he would. Not sure if it is his normal pace, or a one-time thing now that he wants us to talk.

"Yeah," I agree. "I saw that. Damian told me the same thing, too."

"Good if he talks to you, 'cause he doesn't talk to _us_." Another drag. "Did he tell you who did that to him?"

"Don't know what '_that'_ is. And no."

Jason is pissed off. His jaw is clenched as he waves the cigarette in front of me. I accept it this time, puff on it twice. When both of Jason's hands are back on the wheel, I take longer drags until it is consumed entirely. I then throw it out of the window.

"Here," I sigh. "No evidence of our crime. Please _never_ tell Damian about that." He casts a curious glance at me. I turn my head the other way. "Listen, Jason, I'm sorry Damian doesn't tell me _everything_…"

"Eh, I'm not mad at you. Honest."

"No?"

"Kid, we _seriously_ need you. Doesn't matter if you don't know the details, as long as you can do all of us a favour and convince Damian to ask _Bruce_ to deal with the source of the problem. _Alone_."

"What? Why?" Jason cringes at that.

"Because _he is his father_, that's why. And _this_, right here, is _not_ about Damian affronting his demons or some bullshit of this kind. It is on Bruce's _must-do_ list to stand up for his child, preferably alone to avoid demon brat to get wounded even deeper."

"How could I ever convince Damian to side by any of that? It would be too humiliating for his standards."

"Yeah, it would. Fucked up _standards_ of his. They are the reason why we need you to _try_ anyway. Well, you and _us_ birds – Tim included, he only fakes his lack of care." A red traffic light, nearby Wayne Tower. Jason adjusts his seat, goes on: "Look, I might be preaching to a convert here, but there is _no_ _shame_ for a _child_ Damian's age, _shaken_ like he was, to rely entirely on a parent to help getting closure in difficult times." Green. "But of course that's _not_ how the kid was raised, which is _exactly_ what the baddies are counting on. It's a moral war now, and if we want to win, then Damian _must_ give away his principles and this destructive pride of his, and put his entire trust in the hands of his father. Do you understand?"

I do. Really. I cannot picture Damian doing any of this, but I agree with this plan, which only makes me sad. This bird is too stubborn. Jason must have noticed my discomfort.

"Eh. Okay. _Okay_. Sorry, kiddo, that came out harsh."

"That's the only _right_ plan, isn't it?"

"Dunno about that. Might prove to be a disaster, in the end. But it's the only plan Tim, Dick and I all agree on."

"Why doesn't Richard talk to Damian, by the way?"

"Because _he is a dick_."

The gate of St Aden is now in sight. Jason parks a few feet away. When I unbuckle my seat belt, a full pack of cigarettes lands on my lap. My driver shakes his head.

"Dick has always been more of a _dad_ for Damian," he confesses. "Dad-bro. Bro-dad. Whatever. He is probably blaming himself for what happened, more than he should and definitely more than Bruce. As a result, he is too ashamed to do anything besides watching over the kid's sleep. Damian and Dick share a very strong bond. I'm not giving you a lot new intel here, am I?"

"No," I admit. "Damian talks about Richard all the time."

"Yeah, these two are like that. You should patrol with Dick, one of these nights. He _never_ shuts up about that brat. A proud mom, I tell ya."

I nod, smiling softly. He returns the gesture.

"I'll try my best, Jason."

"I know you will. I saw you fight on these streets, remember? You're _committed_." And there I go blushing again. "Parents want the best. _Most of the time_, at least. Dunno about yours, sadly know about mine. So let's say _some_ parents do. The good ones. We have to hope that Bruce will do the right thing and nudge Damian into accepting to let everything go, which means talking to the kid truthfully, even if that's perhaps too big of a wish. They both need help. Hell, I'm actually more worried about the old man, lately. Did Damian tell you that B and I don't even _fight_ anymore?" I nod, suddenly amused. "Frightens me, really. Also there's a fuming nun staring at the car. Friend of yours?"

I look outside the window to inspect the figure at the gate. It's Sister Agnes. Her arms are crossed, and yeah, she is _not happy_.

"Cigarettes," Jason grins.

I snicker and quickly hide the pack at the bottom of my bag.

"Thanks for the ride, Hood."

"Don't mention it, ginger. See _and text_ you whenever. My number's in the pack."


	7. Chapter Four - part 2

**And so it is four a.m. Again. Guess it is my golden hour when it comes to writing.**

**I hope you will enjoy this chapter, darling readers. Things are moving, and I would _love_ to read your thoughts about it. Best wishes - always.**

* * *

**4.2 – **_**Richard Grayson**_

Jason entered my room at dawn, mobile phone in hand. I was too sleepy to tell him to fuck off.

"Jay, please… Ever heard of knocking?"

"_No_," he spat. "Barb asked me to tell you that she would like to meet up. '_Usual café at ten'_, she wrote. Now, I tolerate you guys and all, but I ain't part of the local _pigeon_ _post_, alright? Repair whatever kind of relationship you two are supposed to have, 'cause I will _not_ deliver your sexts any longer. You're welcome."

I growled loudly. Jason slammed the door shut.

It is ten thirty now, and Barbara is beautiful. Her face is delicate and pale, her hair fuzzy and wild, her eyes hazy yet sharply focusing on my hands, a cut shining on her lower lip, the pale pink of her cheeks matching the tones of her shirt… She is the prettiest girl, the most amazing _woman_ I ever met. Right now I wish she would still think of me as a bird capable of unpredictable wonders, an upright person, a strong man. A _good_ _brother_.

I know she doesn't.

"Still avoiding Damian, aren't you?"

"Maybe. Yeah. It is more difficult to talk to him than you – and Tim, and Jason, and Alfie – make it sound."

"_Please_ – no. It isn't. Not for _you_ anyway." Babs takes a sip of her mocha. The place is relatively quiet around us. "Damian adores you, Dick. How could it be news to you? None of us could ever reach him like you once did. Your care was enough to keep him here, even when Bruce was away. You are his brother, his mentor, his _dad-by-choice_ or whichever title he chooses to give you when he thinks about your bond and _knows_ you'll be here to help. Are you here to help?"

"It's not…"

"_Are you?_"

Her tone is dry and assured. It hurts, but I understand her. I understand them _all_. No need to hide from Barbara.

"No," I whisper. "I'm not_ here_. I am trying to be but every time I find myself about to enter his room, every time he is _awake_, I remember that it has been days, _weeks_, that I have not been here for him, that I am pretending not to see the silent pleas in the way he looks at me. I failed him, Babs; I _am_ failing him. There is only little I could tell him by now."

"I am to assume that '_little'_ means '_the truth'_." Playing _fair_ is not on her agenda, today. "Well, that's great, because the truth is what Damian needs. You blame yourself for the assault? Tell him. You are ashamed that you stayed numb for this long? Tell him. You are not entirely over what _Tarantula_ did to you?" I shiver and shoot her a glare. Frowning, undaunted, she leans in closer. "_Tell him, _Boy Wonder_._"

"No. It's not the same, Babs. I was an adult. My _mom_ did not send her. My life was less of a weird tale than his, even considering the whole night gig part of it. It's in the past, and there it should stay."

"It is not about the circumstances; it is about the _feelings_. How did it feel, Dick? Don't you think Damian could relate?"

Actually, I do. It took me a while to identify what hurt the most back then, but I eventually did. However I am not about to tell Damian this particular tale.

"He _would_," I concede. "But _I_ would as well. _Again_. This is not about _me_, or at least it shouldn't be. The further I distance Damian from how I felt, the more he might be able to express his own anger. And yeah, I get what you're saying, it might help him to know that he is not alone on this shaky boat, but at the same time I am certain that it would not be making him a favour to place myself as the victim here. He must be, he _should_ be expecting more from me."

"And yet, you refuse to give him _anything_."

Her voice is full of poison. I cannot say that I am not on her side for that. After a moment of silence, she softens.

"I see your point, though. I do not agree with it, but maybe you are right, and relating is not what would help someone like Damian. The situation is indeed more complex than it was for you, or for… _this girl_ I know. She doesn't talk about it much. I understand, it's _hard_, and given Damian's past and present states of mind it will be nearly impossible to convince him to let it go. Nevertheless, you _have_ to stand up for him _now_, Dick. You must help. He is _your_ boy too."

That's true, I suppose. At least that's how I've felt since Damian entered our lives. For a while I thought that it was just a logical answer for being stuck together in Gotham for so long, while the others were MIA or simply refused to acknowledge the good man Damian could become. I convinced myself that we had no choice, and so it happened. It was a lie, of course. I love Damian like one loves a brother, a _son_, someone too dear to lose, to hurt, or to disappoint.

"How's his _actual_ father dealing?" Barbara asks, swapping her empty cup for mine, which was left untouched so far.

"Good question. He isn't, in some ways, which infuriates Jason enough that he is staying in the manor more and more as time passes by."

"At least one interesting development emerges from this, I see."

"Yeah, you can say that. It is odd to have him around, but he seems pretty committed to help. He is also fearless. That scares _me_ a little. He cleaned Damian's bedroom, a few days ago, then went straight to B whom Tim and I were having breakfast with, and _quietly_ told him – '_Sorry to disturb you, but I thought you would like to know that you happen to have a preteen son feeling lost in his own space, and whose parents are fucking jerks remarkably unfit to handle a playground quarrel like normal adults should_'. It stunned the man, Babs. Tim dragged Jay away almost immediately, although in the end it might have not been necessary. B wasn't even mad. He sat there, face blank, didn't move for a minute, then carried on with his morning routine as if nothing had been said. It was _odd_."

Barbara acquiesces, finishes my cup, stands up cautiously. I am about to do the same, but she shakes her head, gesturing for me to stay on my chair. I oblige. She walks to the counter and order two more drinks. When she comes back with the cups in hand, I can smell a faint hint of alcohol.

"Irish for you," she states. "Tea for me. Now, about Jason, I am only half-surprised. Bruce never really tried as hard as he should have, with him, but believe it or not, Jason is _kind_. He would want the best for Damian, or Tim, or literally anyone he can save or help saving."

"Did you hear about his patrol with Damian?"

I have disconnected myself from the superhero world's rumours, lately. Hard to keep up with what's public, and what isn't. I regret my question when Barbara's expression darkens.

"Yes. Tim informed me of the incident. We then spent hours tracking the source of the files."

"Did you find it?"

"Of _course _we did," she retorts. "We retrieved other pictures, on the phone, and were able to erase these from the origin server as well – _permanently_. There is no guaranty that there aren't any other, though, or that someone did not save those elsewhere we cannot access. We'll keep watch. Well, we would, but it honestly feels like a never-ending punishment. It is impossible not to ignore what's on the screen. I cannot see myself going through this every other night."

"I am so sorry, Babs."

"If you truly are, at least talk to Damian. Please. The kid is waiting for you. He has no one to confess his fears to."

"He has Colin."

"A _child_."

"A _friend_. Damian trusts him."

"_Richard John Grayson_."

Her eyes are piercing, fiery. I am deceiving her, I know. The words rang pitiful into my ears just as soon as they were pronounced. When did I become this dishonest and weak man?

"Forgive me, Babs. Please. I heard that. I'm not making excuses, believe me – Colin _is_ important to Damian. Always was. It doesn't mean that I won't do my share, and then some. I swear I will. I am sorry."

"You're right to be." She calms down, gradually.

"You know," I say, "Tim, Jason and I agreed on a plan. Nothing too complicated, a few steps only. Okay, the steps are complicated. But the main point is that Damian should let Bruce take care of _everything_, or almost. Like a father would."

"I am familiar with the things fathers would do," she murmurs, her tone soft. "However I do not see that plan happening without a fight. A big one."

"Indeed," I sigh. "Would you try and speak to Bruce?"

"Do you _have_ to ask?" _No_. Not in a million years. "Does Colin know about this?"

"Jason took him for a ride on Tuesday. That's when Damian and Colin meet, every week from now. See? The kid is _great_. Anyway, yes, Jay told him about it."

"Alright."

I drink half of my cup in one gulp. The taste of whiskey, however mild, is welcome on my tongue. Wishing to keep my head clear, I have not indulged in a single drop of alcohol since we brought Damian home from that warehouse. I missed it a little.

"Slow down," Barbara smiles. "We've got time. There'll be more alcohol, if needed."

"If you want me to talk to Damian, BG, '_more alcohol_' sounds like a _terrible_ idea."

"Probably, but a little might push you just enough to jump back into these embarrassing '_over-bearing brother_' shoes of yours."

"I failed _this_ bad, didn't I?"

"So did Bruce. So did _Talia_. Damian could use a third parent, this time again, perhaps _forever_. What if that is exactly what you were brought into the world for?"

"_Heaven forbid_."

Her chuckle is, hands down, the nicest thing I have heard in weeks.

* * *

"Where were you?" Damian asks. And really, for a while, I think about running away from my room, now that he has finally set a foot in it. I don't know why I stay.

The kid is painting something colourful on the wall above my bed. Fishes swimming between clear waters and pale foam. Some drops of ink have landed on my pillow. It is difficult to judge whether I should sit on the bed, behind Damian, or on the chair behind the desk. The decision is harder than it appears. Too close might annoy him, whereas too far might lead him to believe that I do not want us to reconnect. Both options are wrong, so I just stand here, a feet away from the bed frame, on Damian's right side. He seems content with it.

"I have been waiting in here for a while," he mumbles. His eyes find mine. I am nervous. He, for once in a long time, looks rested, collected. I relax a bit at the sight.

"I am sorry, Damian." _For this, and so much more_. "I was out in Burnside, sharing a mocha with Barbara. I was slow to finish mine, so she stole my cup and drank it. As an apology, she later offered me an Irish Coffee. It's whiskey, coffee, sugar and cream. I'll buy you one when you'll be older."

Damian nods, his round, _young_ face impossible to read right now. I get on my knees, so that our eyes are almost on the same level. I let my hands rest on the side of the bed.

"Please forgive me, Damian," I implore. "I didn't know what to tell you."

"Have you seen the pictures?"

He keeps his tone flat, which may demand quite the effort. I shake my head.

"No. It's not that I want to pretend nothing happened, honest, but I figured it might hurt you if I had." He _nods_. Jason warned me. I careful add: "Would you rather I saw them?"

"_No_," he snaps. "No. Don't."

"Alright. I won't." I pat the bed, straighten the blanket. Damian's anxiety is palpable. "Listen, kiddo, you are not at fault here. You know that, I'm sure. And that's _good_, you _must_ know, you must remember knowing, and not doubting it one second. Never. And if you ever forget it, I'll be there to remind you. You'll just have to come to me, and I'll fix this. I always will."

"I know. I trust you." I raise my chin up to look at him closely. I was not expecting that. His eyes wander away when he amends: "Colin reminded me so. That I _trust you_. I am not sure anymore, to tell the truth. I don't know how I feel about you, or about Father. You _abandoned_ me." I lower my gaze, in defeat. "But I abandoned _you_, too. And myself. I should have come to you sooner."

"That is _not_…"

"This is how I _want_ to remember it, Richard. If I don't, what is left? You two ignoring me? I cannot take that. I can't. Please don't ask me to."

At the beginning of this, Tim and Jason mentioned that particular clause. Damian's_ terms_. I am not sure the word fits what is now unfolding in front of me. My bird isn't imposing conditions – he is _begging_. He is creating _lies_ he allows, _forces_ himself to believe wholly until they swallow reality to the point of no-return. And I shouldn't enable that, I know. But he looks too small, too fragile and on edge for me to protest.

I don't agree. I don't object. I watch as Damian grasps a brush and paints a galaxy in the palm of my right hand, biting his lower lips so that it ends up bleeding a little, his eyes set on his work with too much intensity.

"Please," he repeats, after five solid minutes of silence. "I cannot get _him_ to talk to me. I cannot bring _myself_ to talk to him."

"I'll help," I reply quickly. "As soon as he comes out of his study, if you feel ready."

"_No_."

We are not making progress, apart from conversing. I guess this is already a substantial step, so we could leave it at that; but just as I am about to give Damian a hug, Bruce's voice echoes from the hallway through the door I left open.

"Alfred? Dick? _Jason_? Damian is not his room, has anyone…"

He stops talking as soon as he crosses the threshold, his eyes falling on us. Damian's expression oscillates between fear and hopefulness. Bruce, in this instant, fakes impassibility. I have to do _something_.

"Hey, B," I say, my voice light. "He's alright, no worries. My walls just needed a fresher look."

"I can see that." Much like Damian's, his tone is forcefully leveled. All of a sudden, I understand Jason's recent attitude. I intend to carry on with my useless talk until Bruce actually takes a step toward his son. Damian is faster than me.

"Hello, Father."

It takes Bruce aback, a little. He waits for a few seconds to answer, his voice much warmer.

"Hello, Damian. I was going to ask you if you needed anything. Obviously, I didn't find you where I thought I would. It's nice to see that you seem alright."

Damian nods. As _expected_. I lift myself on the bed, beside him, gently poking his arm to encourage him to talk. It works, to some extent.

"I don't need anything."

"Yeah, okay." Bruce cannot hide his discomfort. I intervene again:

"Say, Bruce, if you have time now, perhaps we could all move to the patio for tea, or something?"

"Well…"

"Oh, he _has_ time." Jason appears behind our mentor and father, looking disgruntled, waving a scrubbing sponge in the air. "Alfred and I need you filthy lot away from the rooms you use the most, because you are fucking babies who each deserve a picture on the annual '_heroes saving lives but neglecting the state of their home_' board. Well, excepting you, Damian, naturally. Paint and music sheets don't count, it's _art_, so I'll give you that. Also Tim has been graced with better habits since we started hanging out more. So really, it's just you two, Bruce and Dick. Who would have thought? Ah, who am I kidding – _everybody_ would have, like, literally. Now, to the patio you three go. Alfie's orders."

"But Alfred didn't…"

"Sirs," we hear from afar, "may I suggest you all gather in the patio for tea? The collation is already en route."

Bruce scoffs, sending Jason a reproachful glare. Little Wing just snickers, throws the sponge on my desk and gives us a swift sign before he disappears in the hallway. I can barely contain a soft laugh.

"Dick, please," Bruce grunts. "Let's go. You too, Damian."

The kid complies and collects his painting tools. I help him gathering them on the bedside table. We then stand up at the same time and step toward Bruce. He smiles at me, briefly, before he reaches down to pull Damian into a hug. My little brother doesn't reject the gesture. Instead, he lingers in the embrace, closes his eyes and refuses to let Bruce go.

It might be the one and only time I will ever say this, but _blessed be Jason Todd_.


	8. Chapter Five - part 1

**The second part of this chapter will be long and particularly difficult to write. I hope to complete it soon. Please bear with me.**

**Thank you for reading – and for reviewing, if you do! Please also feel free to PM me. =) **

**All the best, **

* * *

**5.1 – **_**Bruce Wayne**_

"They keep on coming, Bruce. We didn't erase them all. I can't look at it anymore, and neither can Barbara. It can't go on like that. _Please_."

I take in a deep breath, pinch the bridge of my nose as I close my eyes, leaning back in my chair. The office is too busy for a Tuesday afternoon. I ignored work for too long. My third son however retains my undivided attention.

"I know, Tim. I know it's not right. But what could I do that you can't?"

"Tell Talia to _stop_." His tone doesn't wobble. Tim is _furious_. "For the moment the situation still seems consigned within a restricted circle of scumbags we can have an impact on. But what if the pictures go public? They _will_, if that's in their plans – mind you, I doubt it is. Their endgame is somewhere else. I have not figured that one out yet, but either way, the risk is too high. Damian's life would shatter beyond repair. It must end. _Fast_."

I have felt helpless in my life, several times. With each death I failed to prevent came a new wave of guilt and anger crashing on my door. Gotham never seems to get better. I might never find someone to share old age with. All in all, I do certainly carry my share of angst and corpses; yet, the most devastating feeling I have ever known is to realise that it is sometimes _impossible_ for me to comfort my darling sons. It doesn't happen often, but in this instant it is consuming me whole. I cannot oblige in Tim's request. He is not being unreasonable, he is not _wrong_. He is concerned and tired. So am I; and _yet_.

"Tim – please, sit down. Sit down. You've been pacing around this office for what seems like half an hour." He cracks his knuckles and chews on his tongue, visibly annoyed. "Come on, Tim. _Son_. Please? We need to talk."

"_No_," he breathes out. "Bruce, I _love you_, but right now you're doing everything wrong. You cannot hide behind the fact that Damian has not voiced out how he would like us to proceed, because he _won't _do that. He just won't. Or at best he will, and it will sound awfully close to '_I'll handle it_ _myself'_. He doesn't have to, Bruce. He shouldn't. Please tell me that you are not using him as an excuse not to get at Talia and make her _pay_."

"_That_," I point out, raising my hands in a pacifying stance, "is exactly the problem. Tim, we are not a hundred percent confident that Talia is behind it, only that her clique is involved. Even if she was the head behind this mess, revenge would never help."

"Then _what_ will, B? Showing Damian that you are sorry, but not sorry enough that you would ask _him_ to sit down and talk about real things, instead of how nice the weather is or how lovely his sketches are?" Tim's exasperated voice breaks when he drops on a chair, in front of me, covering his forehead with his right hand. "This is not good, Bruce. It doesn't _work_."

"I know."

"_Stop_ saying that _you_ _know_, and _act_, for fuck's sake!"

Although it is not the first time it occurs, Tim rarely screams at me. At other people, yes – mainly at Jason and Damian. With me he usually remains quiet and composed, most of the time. To see him upset because of me is hurtful. It _itches_. His sudden outburst rings like a bad call.

He slowly calms down, his fingers entwined and his arms now resting on the desk. His hands show signs of obsessive scratching.

"I'm sorry," he articulates, the syllables detached. "I shouldn't have yelled. It's just… It's _not_ just Damian, okay? It's all of us. We are tired, morally, physically. I wouldn't even get one hour of sleep each night if it wasn't for Jason, who is now constantly watching out for me. That must be exhausting to _him_. And yeah, none of us reached Damian in time. I think about the state we found him in every single day, and when I manage to suppress the memory for a minute, it later comes back right in front of my eyes, more vividly each time, through these ugly pictures popping up on our screens. I _can't_, alright? I _don't want to_."

This is bad. This is my fault. I stand up and walk around the desk. Tim doesn't seem ready to rise on his own, so I cautiously grab his left arm and help him getting on his feet. He almost falls apart on the spot.

"I don't want to," he repeats, shaking now.

"You don't _have_ to, Tim. I'm sorry. It is true, I've stayed _behind_." I pull him closer, until he leans on me. "Listen, I'm not good at this – _any_ of this. I am afraid that speaking too frankly with Damian would aggravate the situation, given how _gifted_ I am when it comes to consoling people. The only thing I am certain of is that we cannot march toward Talia without Damian agreeing to it beforehand. She is his mother. The fact that she is also a monster does not outplay that, unfortunately."

"What could her goal be, Bruce?"

"To stay in his head? We cannot know for sure. Not immediately. The very moment I'll see her, I'll demand answers. I promise. For now, we should focus on Damian. He has to tell us what he needs, and to let us convince him that he can and _should_ rely on us, _completely_."

"Will you talk to him today?"

"_Yes_."

This was not supposed to be my reply. It is a _lie_, at least in part. If Damian comes to me, then yes, I will try and offer him to speak freely of what these men did to him. But I hope he won't.

I have fallen _hard_.

"You're lying, aren't you?" Tim knows me all too well. He pushes me away, fixes me with his blue eyes, severe and disappointed. "Now, you listen carefully. You might be our mentor, Bruce, but most importantly you are Damian's _father_. Our father. We all need you, don't you understand? It is not _fair_ that you and Dick got to remain on the side-line, as though it was expected of Damian to get through it on his own. It is not fair that Jason spends day and night awake, taking care of those you have been letting down. _He_ is troubled, too. He needs you to fix what happened years ago, and in return, he can help _you_ by listing everything you did wrong once, and could get right this time. You need – you _have_ – to listen to him, to talk to him, to acknowledge just how much he has done for this family so far. Meanwhile, although he would never admit it, Alfred was as affected by the situation as we all were. What do you think it feels like for him to see you being this _passive_? He raised you to be strong and caring, Bruce. Not selfish, self-centered, or _cowardly_. Dick seems to have come to his senses by now. Why haven't _you_?"

The knuckles of my right hands are white, my fist too tight. My favourite way to end an uncomfortable display of truth concerning my struggles with this whole fatherhood thing is as nagging as I remember it. But of course I do not punch Tim. Why would I? He is right, he needs me, and once again my stubbornness got in the way of the well-being of the people around me. I wish that would be something new.

"Again, I am sorry." Tim's tone is serious. To relieve the pressure between us, I put on a faint smile.

"For stating facts?"

"As you _may_ know, truth is not always pleasant to hear. This is usually why I want to punch Jason in the face, _all the time_."

A traditional brotherly relationship, I suppose. These two have grown up. It is getting complicated to hide how proud and vaguely sad I am, looking at my third bird.

"_I_ am sorry, Tim. You're right. About everything. I will do better. Please don't give up on me."

His expression is a bit doubtful, but he nods anyway. I open my arms, hopeful. To my relief, Tim allows me to hug him. I embrace him tight. Placing a peck on his hairline, I feel him getting heavier. Jason, called on a crime scene supposedly connected to one of his open cases, has not slept at the Manor last night.

"You should go home now," I whisper. "Take a nap. I can handle things here."

"You can coordinate an administrative meeting in 5, two simultaneous conferences in 30, and a review of the ninety-two resumes the HR deemed promising for our open positions? They need it by three."

"It is two twenty…"

"Don't worry, I'll _kindly_ ask for a delay down there while you attend the meeting. We can share the conferences."

"I appreciate it, really, but your lack of sleep concerns me. You don't _have_ to do this."

"I know. Actually, at first, I came here to complain and then _ditch_ work. Maybe permanently."

"That sounds _terrifying_. Please don't do it, not even as a prank. I care about you and about you work. Mostly about you."

He grins a little.

"Thanks, B. I feel the love." I grimace in pain. _One_ Jason might be _enough_.

"Yes, about _that_ – Jay and you have _separate_ bedrooms. I therefore expect the two of you to stop sleeping in the same bed, hanging out, _talking_ to each other, or exchanging greetings in the morning."

"That sounds terrifying. Please don't say it again, not even as..."

"_Alright_, alright; to the tenth floor you go."

Despite the light turn the conversation took, Tim doesn't move. His body language holds something unusual for him, perhaps a bit of fear.

"Bruce," he starts, "Colin is at the Manor as we speak, trying to convince Damian to keep the drawing on paper instead of all over the walls. He is an amazing kid, and the best chance Damian has right now to open up to the idea of _delegating_. There is no telling how big or small the progress will be today. What if we are in luck, and Damian comes to talk to you? What would you do?"

"What do you think?"

Tim doesn't answer. He studies me one last time, sends me an encouraging look and a thankful smile before he leaves my office. I inhale slowly, count to ten, exhale. _Too busy for a Tuesday afternoon_.


	9. Chapter Five - part 1,5

**While I was busy fighting… whatever it was my brain deemed worth fighting against, a good dozen of new followers appeared. I cannot stress enough how nervous, yet happy it made me. Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you.**

**I'm getting there. Please R&amp;R, and / or PM me if you want or need to talk about anything more or less related to the story. I hope you'll all enjoy this (un-beta'd) (extra filler-not-filler-still-important-for-later) (purposefully lighter &amp; fluffier) chapter. **

* * *

**5.1.5 – **_**Jason Todd**_

The first book I bought for myself was a thrift shop copy of Tracy Chevalier's _Falling Angels_. Tacky title, if you ask me. Can't remember what motivated my purchase, know all too well where I got the money from. Not the best of times. Never finished the book. Couldn't even tell you how it started, in fact.

The only thing I know is that page 120 lines 10 and 11 of this edition read: "_Above all, he is kind to me without making me feel a lesser person_", and these damn words made me feel so longing, angry and full of wasted love, that I destroyed it to pieces, threw it into the trash and burned the whole thing to the ground.

Turns out the Wayne Manor library also has a copy of this book. A nicer one, of course. It has been read a few times but handled carefully enough that only regular readers could tell. _Tim_, I figure. He spends as much time here as I'd like to, most days. He knows how to take care of books. It's a trait I respect.

"Jason?" Leaning on the doorframe, Dick is soaking wet and little breathless. It's seven in the morning and it definitely looks like this idiot went outside for a run. A _run_, of all things. _Jesus Fucking Christ_.

"Did you _have_ to, Dickie? Look at that ass," I tease. He chuckles between heavy breaths.

"_Stop_. We had slow nights, I needed to clear my head. All done now. I'll catch some sleep before lunch."

"Yeah, okay."

"Are you looking for new reads?" He peeks at the pile in my hands. "I can recommend a couple titles."

"Nah, it's okay. Just wanna teach Colin proper English."

Dick barely contains a laugh at that. Which, okay, I ain't about to fight. It's fair. I add _Falling Angels _to my selection and proceed to exit the room, Dick on my right. He is leaving drops of sweat everywhere.

"Gross, Big Bird."

"Shut up," he grumbles. "I ran for a long time, then I got bored so I went to the health trail near Gotham Academy – you know, in the woods? – to do some light gymnastics, and out of nowhere appeared this chubby grandma. So far, so good. I expected other people there anyway. So, no biggie, at least until _she_ spotted me. Oh boy. Her face turned spooky in less than a second, Jay! I kid you not, we were at this spot where you can train on parallel bars, and she looks at me straight in the eye, then lifts herself up in horizontal position between the bars, and boom! Full split, casually hanging in the air like that. No trembling limb, still trying to curse me with her witchy look. Can't believe I didn't have my phone with me. Anyway, I had no idea how to feel about… _that_, so I ran some more. Like, an hour more."

"You're ridiculous," I snort. The grin on his face is soft, warm and kind of dopey when he answers me:

"_Yes_."

Dear God: you shouldn't have. (_Thank you. I missed him much._)

* * *

I carefully drop the books in front of Damian's bedroom. Dick looks a bit surprised.

"Colin slept here," I shrug. "He taught Damian how to play hopscotch today, and later insisted to teach it to Damian's pets. Well, not to Bat-cow, obviously."

"Please tell me they succeeded."

"Dunno. I left before they got the chance to ask me to join in. But Alfred stayed with them, and _he_ has never, ever forgotten his phone since its options started to include a high res camera."

"Swell. I'll ask him then."

I nod. Wait. There is this silence around us again, the kind that screams all sorts of bad things I don't want to deal with right now. Fact is, I'm exhausted too. I haven't slept much in days, what with being the Red Hood and all. What with being here, most of the time.

What with being Tim's brother, _Damian_'s brother, and Bruce's makeshift remake of a son he stopped needing years ago.

How I hate it when voices scream that. Dick's voice snap me out of my self-loathing, his voice gentle.

"You did great, Jay."

Oh, no. _No_. If even Dick starts to get too kind with me, I won't be able to sleep at all. It's not that I don't want him to be kind to me – I _do_. I _need_ him too. I'd welcome it anytime _but now_. Now's not ideal. I take a deep breath, relax, cross my arms and flash him a cocky smirk.

"Yeah," I tell him, "I know. Save your gross sweat dripping on the floor this place looks amazing, the little ones are sound asleep – hell, even Bruce is asleep. I'm awesome."

"_Yes_," a gruff voice answers, about ten feet away. Okay, Bruce is _not_ asleep. He was, though, if his wild hair, dark eyes, old t-shirt and light shorts combo is anything to go by. "You did well, _both_ of you" he goes on. "Please keep on doing that, but elsewhere? The underage kids need their sleep, _they_ are still growing."

"Jason's _technically_ underage," Dick offers. Fuckin' traitor.

"I'll make sure to spoil you every single movie you're planning to see for the next ten years, you _dick_."

"Boys…" I can't tell if Bruce is annoyed, or actually enjoying the situation. His voice is calm, his face unreadable. He looks _his age_, older than I like to admit he is, and that scares me a bit.

"Sorry," Dick says, sheepish. "I'll go catch some sleep now."

"And a shower," I add. "You're filthy."

"You're _mean_."

"Both true," Bruce agrees. "Please, get some rest." I can't tell whom he meant to say that to. Dickie waves at us before he disappears further in the hallway. Soon enough it's just Bruce and I here. He wants to ask something, but doesn't. It's stressful.

"You're older," I hear myself mumble. _Great start, Todd_.

"Indeed", comes his reply. "It mostly shows at night. Out of costume."

"Yeah." I noticed. Not very reassuring.

"And _you_'re an adult now," he says. His eyes are sending nothing but appreciation my way. _Too much. Please stop_. That's not going to help me sleep - at all. Bruce lets the silence sink in, sighs, then smiles a little. "If that's a competition of the most angst-inducing realization, then I think I win."

"Congratulations," and oh, I didn't mean this dry tone. This word. Stupid fatigue. I lower my head in shame, chew on my lips. Bruce, his expression wounded, takes a few seconds to answer. Then, warily:

"Thank you. It was actually quite hard to admit. You being an adult. It's alright."

"Urg," I grunt, "that's embarrassing…"

He takes a sharp breath in, opens his mouth to speak, before ultimately closing it, biting his tongue. He is conflicted. I understand. I know what he wants to say; he knows it wouldn't be right. Not _exactly_ right, at least.

Still.

"Yeah – that comes with the… _job_." I manage. "Sorry, B, but I'm exhausted. Off to bed. 'Night." I start to walk away. Behind me, I hear Bruce murmur - "Rest well, son."

That's all I'd ever ask.


	10. Chapter Five - part 2

**Hello old and new followers! A longer one this time, back to the main storyline. Hope you'll enjoy it. I was unsure of… pretty much everything regarding this 'key' chapter, so if you've got comments, please do not hesitate to send them my way! =)**

**On a side-note, DC, **_**please**_** bring Colin back to Gotham! **_**Rebirth**_** could do that, right? I'll stay in the corner, and hope. **

* * *

**5.2 – **_**Colin Wilkes**_

It all went down after Damian's first, impromptu sleep over at St Aden's. That one was difficult to explain to Sister Agnes. It was about three in the morning when my friend, in full Robin attire, entered my room using the window I had left slightly open. A drizzle was pouring over Gotham, its sound lulling the twins to sleep as they both struggled to fight a stomach bug. I was awake and watching over them, sitting on my bed, one of Jason's books open on my lap. Damian was the last person I expected to see that night. Yet, here he stood, immobile and unreadable, raindrops dripping from his cape. For a minute, I didn't say anything, just smiled and waited for him to take a step in my – and the twins' sleeping forms – direction. If I had learned anything within the past couple months, it was that Damian was now functioning on a different rhythm than before. That was fine by me, really; nevertheless I'd admit it was sometimes unsettling, awkward. Calling for precaution.

When it became clear that Damian was looking for a signal of some sort, probably unsure of what to do of the toddlers snoozing on my bedroom's floor, I waved at him to come closer, mouthing a low "_Hi_". He crossed his arms behind his back, bowed his head, but stayed in place. At least, he didn't run. _So far, so good_.

That's the moment Nightwing chose to land on the windowsill. His mask did little to hide his concerned expression, which softened when he spotted me. However, shock took over him when his eyes travelled to the twins. Damian grew uneasy within seconds. It was my cue to speak at last – swiftly, steadily.

"It's alright," I whispered. "They are a bit sick and too exhausted by now. They'll sleep through quiet conversations. Don't worry about it."

Nightwing clenched his jaw, nodding despite his obvious disbelief. I wondered why he didn't leave his perch. Cold air was starting to fill the room through the window left wide open then. I feared for the twins' recovery, for a second, before I let the thought go. After making sure that their blankets were wrapped carefully so not to let the wind gets to them, I turned my attention to Damian again. It was apparent that a panic attack or, worse, a violent meltdown, was about to happen. Had he and Richard fought? Had patrol gone awry? As encouraging as it was to see Robin back in Gotham, it still gave chills to us other vigilantes who knew him privately. He was doing better. There was no denying that. But the cracks in his shell were not a matter to ignore.

"Patrol was alright," Damian started, his voice barely audible. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes not focusing anywhere special. He was making _efforts_. "We met the others," he added. "From the Academy."

He had of course told me about his friends from Gotham Academy, that prep school I never even saw a picture of. Not for folks like me. It astounded me that rich kids in top-class schools would ever consider vigilantism as an extracurricular option. As far as things go, they had much more to lose than people like Jason or I ever did. Well, until we found a second family, that is. But Damian liked them – or at least _some_ of them. He seemed to be close to one of the girls in particular, and was cordial to the gang as a whole. I was yet to meet any of these people.

I waited for Damian to elaborate on the story; in vain. He was chewing on his lower lip and the vague air of panic had turned into a growing anger as he spoke, even more so since he fell into silence. Nightwing cleared his throat, finally left the windowsill and took two steps in Damian's direction. He then turned to address me directly.

"It's been weeks since we spotted them on patrol," he clarified. "Robin was with them right before… you know."

That was bad. Damian stood very still, his breath too light, his emotional state visibly thrown on a rollercoaster ride. Nonetheless, he kept it together. I'd openly praise him for that if I knew less than I do about his default reaction to such courtesies.

"We should go home now, Dami, alright?" Nightwing – _Richard_ tries. "I told B we were on our way about ten minutes ago. He won't be mad that we came to visit Colin for a bit, but staying any longer is a liability and will certainly make both your dad and Alfie worry. Okay? Come on…"

"I'm not angry at them," Damian said with a frown, his voice firmer, louder. I counted my blessings at the lack of reaction from the kids. My friend blushed when he realised his mistake. "_Sorry_," he offered, his tone hushed. "It's just… I am upset. I wasn't kind to Maps and Pomeline, and it made them sad. They are my friends. They _were_. I don't know." A beat. "I lost their numbers when I busted my phone. I can't tell them I'm _sorry_. I'm upset. Just _upset_."

"I have their numbers," Richard offered. He was relieved, I could tell. It was a breakdown he could manage, and at that point it meant the world to him to know that he had the resources to do something, anything, to help Damian navigate life. "It's okay, D, you can text them later. They might be back to the dorms by now anyway, catching some sleep before class starts. We should do the same. We're tired. Beside, they're all waiting for us to come back before officially calling it a night."

Although Richard's voice and smile were nothing but caring, it was obvious that Damian didn't want to leave. My heart ached at the sight of the conflict my friend found himself in. It is no secret how dearly he loves his eldest brother. He would never think of deceiving him. That's when I stepped in.

"Damian can stay here for the night. It's alright. I'll deal with the nuns tomorrow. With the twins, too. It is no trouble."

It was trouble. Huge trouble. Richard knew as much, given the glance he shot in my direction, but a fortunate timing had something come through his communication device. Mr Wayne might have grown worried. I heard Richard mumble: "_I've got it, B. Just gimme a minute_". I moved the book from my lap to one of the pillows, got up and, carefully avoiding to step on the toddlers sprawled on the floor, scouted closer to Damian.

"Do you wanna stay?" I asked, and he looked at me for what seemed to be the first time that night. "You can take the bed. If you sleep on the floor and the kids wake up with you nearby, they'll either freak out or alert the whole house that a new 'big kid' is here. Both cases ain't great."

"Are you sure, Colin?" Richard once again peeped at the twins. But Damian got the last word.

"_Please_."

I poked at his gloved right hand. He held mine immediately. Richard sighed, apparently too loud, because Tinúviel stirred in her sleep. Come to think of it, at this point of the conversation she might have been more bothered by the cold than by the noise.

"Okay, well… What about the Robin outfit? Perhaps I should drop back at dawn and bring some of Damian's clothes…"

My friend's grip on my fingers got gradually stronger. I kept it to myself. I had not considered the issue of clothes, but indeed, it might have proven troublesome come morning. Fortunately I had an idea, albeit a tad humiliating one, up my pyjama sleeve.

"Or Damian can, you know… Borrow some of my clothes?" I felt myself redden in shame at these very words. The urgency of the situation was not helping my feelings. "If you don't mind, Damian, of course. I know they're not your style at all, but…" I had to bite my tongue to cut the self-pity flow. It was not the right time for that. Richard came to my rescue.

"This is good. It could work. Right, Damian?" He nodded. I knew by the way he had started to sway a little that he was exhausted, in more ways than one. We all kept silent for a while.

"Alright," Richard muttered at last. "Alright. I'll take my leave, then. Just send me a text when you're up and I'll come pick you up right away, little D, okay?" No answer. "Okay. Thank you, Colin." Richard was smiling at me, kind and sincere. "It was not the best night, but it ends well, right? Please be careful in the morning. If possible, wake up early enough that you can go undetected."

"I doubt we can," I whispered. When Richard's face fell, I hastily added – "We'll try, of course. But nuns wake up early, and these two behind me are regular alarm clocks. I'm actually amazed if they sleep three hours straight. But it will be alright. They are lovely toddlers, and Sister Agnes knows I'm into vigilantism, and that it calls for peer support. She might get mad at me, sure, but that's almost a daily thing. She likes me. She'll forgive. She might even help me justify Damian's presence in the orphanage tomorrow if the word goes around. It'll be alright. I promise."

Richard considered my words for a seconds, during which Damian's lips busted open again under the pressure of his bite. I patted my bird's arm with my free hand, which brought him back enough for him to acknowledge the wound. All of a sudden, he seemed sheepish and sad. Richard made up his mind and climbed back on the windowsill. His tone was serious, yet grateful when he told me:

"Very well. I'll report this to B. Are you still coming on Tuesday?"

"Yes. Thank you. Good night?"

"Yeah. To you too, Colin. Thanks. See you tomorrow, D! I love you. Sleep tight?"

"شكرا," came his quiet answer. "_Thank you_."

There was warmth in Damian's voice, despite the fact that he was not looking at Richard directly. His brother brushed it off. He grinned and waved at me, before he disappeared in the night. My initial reflex was to close the window. I didn't let go of Damian's hand. I let a few seconds pass by, before turning to him, meeting his eyes and whispering:

"You can pick up anything you want from my drawer. I know I don't have a lot of stuffs, but I trust you'll find at least a shirt and some pants that will fit you. The red door, behind you, leads to a bathroom. It's super small but don't worry, it's only connected to this room. Privilege of being here for years, passed and to come. You're safe here, okay? Don't worry about the nuns. Or the kids. Or these two babies here."

Damian was weary, angry, sad and ready to burst. I thought safer gently push him toward the drawer. He hesitated in front of my clothes, or more lack of it, so I just picked a few items for him. He thanked me and disappeared in the bathroom. When the door clicked close, I took a few minutes to breathe deeply, slowly, enough to relax so that I could take care of Damian without it damaging me. The right balance was hard to keep up with. I moved to make another camp bed on the floor, just a pile of blankets, much like what I made up for the twins. I had spared them the itchy ones and ended up with all of them for myself. I was used to it. To add some safety, I placed myself between the sleepyheads and the bed. When Damian came out of the bathroom, he was dressed in the ugly clothes I had handed him (oh, Wilkes, he will _adore_ you alright…), his Robin gear in one hand and his phone in the other. I handed him an opaque bag in which he dropped his outfit. His smile was grateful, more relaxed at last.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I crashed here like that. I panicked."

"That's okay. Anytime. We're friends, right?" And _that_ didn't even hurt anymore. I had gotten used to the idea. _Anything_ he needed.

"Yes." Damian was thoughtful. _Hurt_, for some reason. "I told Maps she was too weak, and a burden to us all. That was uncalled for. I didn't mean it." He came to sit on the blankets on the floor with me. I let him grab my hand. "It's not her fault I got caught, Colin… She could have defended herself, since she was _not_ the target of the real attacks, but I was stupid enough to rush to her side without thinking it through. That was idiotic. It was a trap, and I fell for it head first. I failed myself and accusing her was the worst. She must hate me now. She'd be right to."

He was crying, defeated and desperate. He knew there was nothing else he could do that night, other than rest and wait until Richard sent him his friends' numbers. I traced circles over his palms and forearms. It calmed him down within minutes.

"Go to sleep, Damian," I encouraged him. "I will stay up another half hour to make sure the twins are okay, but you really need to rest. Please."

"Yeah, okay."

"Thanks. It'll get better, remember? I'll help you with the texts, if you want. I'm sure they understand the position you are in."

"_Do they?_"

His murmur was blank. Absolutely blank. I brought his right hand to my cheek, left it here for ten good seconds. That felt better. He shook his head and got on his feet, then on the bed. I counted it as a victory.

"Can I please have my book back, by the way? On one of the pillows."

"Sure." He inspected the cover, frowned, and gave me the copy. I thanked him and wished him goodnight. He returned my words, then went silent. I figured he'd fall asleep soon enough.

About twenty minutes later, I felt too tired to go on with the novel. Ivy May had gotten lost in a raging crowd. Everyone was panicking, something the girl never did. She was bright, calm, versed in the notion of self-sacrifice for the greater good, and pure as each and every drawing Damian ever let me see. It was exhausting to read. I was ready to call it a night when my phone buzzed, somewhere in the bundle of covers I was tucked under. I picked it up. It was a text – from _Damian_. He was facing the wall, his back to me. It felt wrong that he was not asleep by then, but I did not comment on that. Instead, I opened his text. "_322_." It clicked instantly, and I flipped through the pages of the book in my hands. 322.

"_Over his shoulder I saw a star fall. It was me._"

I repressed the urge to cry.

* * *

The twins woke up at six, which was a miracle of some sort. They were happy to find me closer to them than I usually was in the morning when they invaded my room, and expressed their happiness by stepping on me to wake me up, giggling nonsense. They were too busy trying to maim me to even spot Damian. To their credit, he was mostly hidden under the blanket, not emitting any sound. He was awake, too. Still half-asleep, I escorted the twins to the hallway, and left them in the care of a nun who was wandering around, checking on the kids potentially awake to organise the first round of breakfast. I declined their offer to take part in the meal – "_for now_," I assured them, "_just wanna clean up first?_" They dropped the subject in thirty second flat. Cannot blame a lack of care here; Sister Agnes had given me passes for almost everything, within the past couple of years. The others got the hint.

Damian was up by the time I was back, texting his brother to come picking him up. His eyes were puffy, his lips pale in comparison of the cut that was shining here. There wasn't much I could tell him. Instead, I opted for a hug. Didn't ask him, just gathered him into my arms, considered how bad of an idea that was a couple seconds too late and waited for him to return it. He did. I felt too loved to believe it and prayed for Damian to somehow feel just how many blessings I was wishing upon his soul.

* * *

And so, later that day, Damian broke down. Mirroring the first few weeks after it all started, he retreated in his room and refused to talk to anyone, me included. Jason texted me several times between the Thursday morning following Damian's sleepover, and now, a bright Monday evening, since Tim Drake had been caught peeking into Damian's sketchbooks a couple hours earlier. Jason himself, although very close to Tim, is furious. His text are full of curses. I understand that.

"That was a bad move," I write. "Damian is very private when it comes to his art."

"Yeah, and in principle Tim _knows_ that. Seeing Damian falling back on the current status quo must that have been rough, though, 'cause it's not just him, it's all of us. We care, so we hurt. That's part of the game. Tim thought it might help if he could reach Damian by talking about art, but since they never were _that_ close, he hadn't realise that Damian was fuckin' serious about keeping his sketchbooks to himself. Short stuff draws and _writes_ in there – he told me so himself. Honestly, things went down real fast. Tim told me that he was waiting for Damian to come back from the kitchen. We just had tea, _all_ of us, because Dick managed to drag the kid there. It was not supposed to get this bad, but Tim's curious, so he looked inside for a second, you know? It took a wrong turn. Tim's devastated. He even stopped by Damian's room several times by now, begging for forgiveness. All he got was a broken arm. Took the three of us to separate them. B can't even be mad or scream at Tim here. I mean, the kid was genuinely trying to help. If timing had been right, Tim would have asked Damian if it was okay to look at his art, then he would have been thrown out of the room, and that's it. End of the story. We were unlucky. Sucks."

To some extent, I feel bad for Tim. The misunderstanding seems to have blown out of proportion, which was to be expected if I'm honest. Damian is still unstable. His family is great at caring, but terrible at showing it or handling it properly. It was bound to blow up. Sitting cross-legged on the windowsill, in my room, I exhale a cloud of smoke through a heavy sigh. How I wish Damian would talk to me right now, and I could find the right words to make him stronger, to bring thickness to his marred skin. I can't. Instead, I keep writing to Jason.

"Last cigarette from the pack you gave me. Please never buy me any again no more."

"_Grammar_, ginger. And yeah, you got it. That stuff's bad." I grin at that.

"Hypocrite. Back to Tim: what exactly was he looking for? Drawings to talk about?"

"More like clues. Detective, you know? Probably figured Damian would spill his fears and anger on paper. It backfired spectacularly, but the idea was something like that."

I took a minute to process that. _Clues_. I raise my chin until I can see my main stack of books. In the middle of the mess, there is the sketchbook Damian gave me that day, weeks and weeks ago, in the graveyard. I have not gone through it after my first visit at the manor. Truth is, it has felt wrong. Damian had sent me pictures of his new drawings via Whatsapp, which I am certain were not leads to anything. Realism. Anatomy studies. Various colouring attempts. Nothing indicated more than mere training, a fact I was almost certain of. The sketchbook, though – it was different. It was a mess. The beginning of it was what Damian usually drew; detailed pieces, lose studies, notes on geometry of forms, occasional writing to remember his days by. But quickly, the drawings turned different. Less realistic, less coloured, then more coloured, before switching to overly detailed or realist pieces… Back then I just thought that he was exploring new styles, to keep his mind busy from whatever was eating him. I didn't pick up on anything that would qualify as clue material, but then again Damian almost punched me last year, after his four day attempt to teach me basic calculus resulted in me getting a C- on a test. That is to say: maybe I'm not bright. I know that. I'm good at vigilantism because I care, not because I'm… well. '_Good_'. I miss stuffs. I'm shamed by the birds' knowledge, or more accurately by my lack of it.

My phone is branded angst-retainer of the day when it buzzes again. Jason finds my reverie too long.

"Sorry," I type back. "Self-loathing. Takes time."

"Yeah, tell me about it. What is it?"

"Nothing. But Damian gave me a sketchbook of his when I first came to see him at the Manor. After the incident, you know? Like weeks after. I am trying to weigh in whether there are clues in it or not."

"And are there?"

"No. I don't think so. The style changes at times but artists do that, right?"

"Yeah. I dunno, Sheeran. We're all clueless here. (Please ignore that Dickhead's rubbing off me this is horrible I hate him)"

"(No) Think it's safe if I write to Damian? I haven't tried since Saturday."

His answer takes a while to reach me "They both apologized to each other. Well Tim said he was sorry again, which is easy to believe since his arm in a cast and the man seems ready to carry the blame for everyone about everything right now, and Damian accepted a quick handshake. Dunno how Bruce pulled that off. Maybe he ain't as bad a dad as I thought he was. (He is. Just not all the time.)" It is soon followed by: "Yes. It's you, plus he is definitely more receptive now. Actually do me a favour and look through the SB again. Pick whatever drawing you think could trigger Damian, and send it to him with whatever kinda text you had in mind."

"That sounds like the very contrary of '_safe'_, Jason."

"Yeah, but it's good for him to let off some angry vibes. Don't worry, I'm the only one in the same room than him now. We're waiting for some more tea, the others went to the kitchen to help. More _tea_, man. English butlers, amirite? Damian's anger don't scare me. Trust me. I can sacrifice a limb if that means he'll feel better."

I shake my head, fondness mixed with disbelief in my chest. If anything, Jason is definite. It's something I can root for.

It only takes me a minute to find what I was looking for. A double-page left blank, saved for the words "He doesn't listen". It's difficult to know precisely when Damian wrote it. The changes in the drawings are too small around the first third of the sketchbook, where this statement lays. Anyway, whether it was written before or after the assault doesn't matter much. '_He_' is Mr Wayne. Damian used to tell me things of that kind about him, for example when his attempts to explain his upbringing more in depth to his father were being cut short after details the bats did not deem worth remembering. It always made him feel hopeless. He _needed_ to talk about that time.

And the thing is: Bruce Wayne would listen _now_. He'd probably sit through four hours of Damian ranting about his cat's behaviour if only to have Damian saying something to him that could help his son get comfortable and trustful enough to tell him the darkest things they all brushed off too often, too fast, too easily before. Damian would have his full attention now.

I type all of it to him, attach a picture of the spread at the end. Wait. It takes forty-four seconds for Jason to text me "_Uh-oh Red, what did you do?_", and for Damian to write back "_What if he stops loving me?_"

* * *

_**Bruce Wayne**_

When Jason entered the kitchen, _alone_, his face serious and faking composure, I knew what was coming. It could not be avoided indefinitely, after all. The outburst of tonight even lead me to think that it was time for me to force things if nothing happened within the next few days. It is better, so much better, if harsh measures can be discarded. Deep down, I know that I could never follow these through. My love for Damian would prevent it to happen.

"B," Jason mutters, "go see him. We'll stay here and away from you two until you're done. _Please_."

He is pleading. _Nervous_. They all are. Dick's eyes are so full of anticipation, fears and doubts that I cannot possibly run and try to buy any more time by now. I put the cups I was busy putting on a tray back into the cupboard and walk toward the door. When I pass Jason, I grab his hand and squeeze it, lightly. His grip is much firmer, betraying his expectations. I hope I won't deceive him _again_.

I enter the small living room I left Jason and Damian in earlier. My youngest son is still sitting on the wide armchair that makes him appear even smaller than he already is. His phone rests on his left. His feet are on the chair, too, his hands joint and kept in front of his lips. It looks like he has been, or maybe is, chewing on them with anxiety. I step right in front of him, carefully, get on my knees so our eyes are roughly on the same level. He is afraid. Knowing that it's not _me_ that he is afraid of does nothing to soothe the pain burning through every cell of my body right now. Damian brings his hands lower and lets his eyes wander around. He is searching for the right words to start with. I feel awful for him. Are there even _right words_ in this situation? No. There should not be. Anything he'll give me should be right. _Will_ be. His voice is low, so juvenile, his tone heavy yet determined when he finally whispers:

"I tried to scream. They wouldn't let me."


	11. Chapter Six - part 1

**This chapter was brought to you by Anxiety™, That Random Bit of Hope™, and Crippling Insomnia™. Between appreciation for Jason, brotherly conversations_ (and fixed typos)_, we're approaching the end. ('Bout time!) **

**Although it was not my plan at first, I had to cut this chapter in two. To wrap up the second part, with Damian and Bruce alone, was too heavy a task for my current state of mind. The draft still needs work and careful detachment. Sorry about that.**

**All in all, I hope you'll enjoy this first part. Please review if you have time and/or comments to share! =) I'm always curious about what you think. I'll try to answer any question, review or pm coming my way. **

**Until next time…**

* * *

**6.1 – Timothy Drake**

We quickly relocated in what used to be Martha Wayne's boudoir, on the second floor. Jason let his head fall on my lap, his whole body resting on the sofa. He is awake and alert. I absently play with his hair with my good hand, the other one hanging loosely from the cast I propped up on the armrest. From the chair he dragged in the middle of the room, Dick is watching over us with this worried expression he has been wearing all too often lately. I will never say it out loud, but feeling as deeply cared for by my brothers as I do now is making my heart sink into a warm, comforting and nurturing state, one I do not wish to leave. That stream is filled with sores; and yet it got me drunk, blissful in its abuse. I gave in to the habit. Part of me hates me whole for wishing for endless refill.

As usual I'm convinced that Jason _knows better_. Sure, he is far from perfect. He is brash and anxious, and too hopeful, too involved. That's why he died. That's why I leech onto him, and why he indulges me. And right now, he's afraid. He is not crying, trembling, or anything. But he is afraid. He knows how Bruce works with foreign emotional situations, how inadequate he can be at times. Although Dick and I also experienced that on numerous occasions, we had it easier. Much like Bruce, until tragedy stroke, we had apt and happy parents. We were loved without conditions and cherished so that horrors of the outside world were hidden from us, that a nest and solid walls were built and fostered around us if only to make us feel safe and sound and special, each minute of each day.

Jason was alien to genuine care. Blind to its very concept so long as it was directed toward him. He gave. He gave some more. He never took because he didn't know _how_, but Bruce and Alfred gave him reasons to hope, just hope and that was _too much_. He felt deceived. Then hopeful again. And so on, like a pattern, a routine he grew content of in later years. He helps us out, ignores our calls for weeks, comes back with raw feelings and tidings of love, fights us, gets away. _Repeat_.

Then one day the incident happened, and Jason broke the circle. Willingly, in a heartbeat. None of us asked him to, but he did it anyway. He stayed and waited, was harsh to Bruce and Dick when they needed to hear cold truths. He posed as the cliché big brother Damian needed in order to keep a thread of normalcy amidst chaos. He served as Alfred's help so the man could catch a break. He helped Babs and Dick talk to each other again. He brought Colin closer to the family. He comforted me, fed me, slept by my side upon mere request.

Yet nothing about it is right. Not quite. In the end all Jason ever took from us these past few months was more concern, more stress, and not an ounce of certainty that our respective restored relationships with him would survive even a week once this household would start to heal for good.

"You alright, Jason?" Dick's tone is neutral. Careful, as always. He sounds more assured when he adds: "It will be okay. Bruce learned, since… since _you_. _Thanks_ to you. It will not be perfect but he will find the proper way to help this time. I'm sure he will." Jason shakes his head. It could mean 'yes', it could mean 'no'. It could be doubt. Dick brings the chair closer, bends down a little toward Jason, and smiles. "Come on, Jay," he insists. "You know I'm right. You probably hates that I'm right, but please, don't give in to fear. You helped us all. Things will get better, eventually, and we will have grown stronger as a family in the meantime. I swear to you, okay? I swear it's what will happen. Please believe me?"

"Shut up. _Please_ shut up." There is a hint of anger in Jason's voice. He is frustrated and the bad thoughts looming in the back of his mind can be quick to attack under such circumstances. I withdraw my hand from his hair. To reassure him that no harm is coming his way has always proven a challenge.

"Jay," I whisper, "Dick speaks the truth. We won't abandon you once it's over. _Never_. You get that? Bruce even told you he would be happy if you stayed, didn't he? He meant it. He is so relieved to see you come back _home_ every night. We all want you around."

"Would the two of you stop speaking about me for _one_ fucking minute and concentrate on _Damian_ for now?" Dick blinks a few times, fast, biting his bottom lips. Our eyes meet, as Jason continues – "I am worried that Bruce will not have the right kind of answers, yes. That's true. But I am also worried that he would listen and talk to Damian _now_ the way I wish, the way _he knows I wish_ he would have listened and talked to me back then. I don't want Damian to feel betrayed, or uncared for. Don't want their relationship to be destroyed either. Kid needs B so much – the man's his _father_…"

"But he is _your_ father too, Jay," Dick mumbles, his voice hurt. Jason falls silent. Panic starts to form in the pit of my stomach, my heart racing a bit faster as I fear yet another round of screams filling the house tonight. Luckily, Dick is quick to react. "Sorry," he says, "I'm sorry, Jason, I didn't mean to bring it up in this manner. Look, I understand why you're thinking about outcomes of that kind. I _really_ do. I was there to witness where a _massive_ lack of true communication with Bruce lead you to, and I blame myself every single day for not stepping in before it got this bad. I'm _sorry_. But please believe me: Damian will be alright. Bruce will make mistakes, yes, certainly. Yet we have to keep faith that they will overcome these. It's different. _We_ _know better_. Besides, Damian has _us_, doesn't he? You were… you were _alone_. He's not. We'd never let him give up, or give up on him."

Jason is chewing on his tongue, his eyes half-open. I feel his body relax and his frustration melting gradually. When I am certain that he is calm enough, I let my fingers wander through his dark mane again.

"Yeah," he concedes at last, his voice hoarse and wary. "Yeah, I know."

"And what I meant to say was that Bruce might use what has happened, and what will happen with Damian now to try to fix the mistakes he did with _you_ in the past," Dick states, his words slow. "Because that's what a parent would do. They always try, again and again. They don't let go of guilt. It is obvious that he punishes himself every day for not being able to reach out to you when he should have, but so far he had no idea how to fix any of that. He has regrets about your relationship the size of the freakin' Sun. He'll _try_, Jason, and when it'll happen, please don't push him away."

"You know I don't _want_ to," Jason interjects, through gritted teeth. He moves to a sitting position, on my right. His frown is a mix of emotions I can't quite decipher. "I don't want to push Bruce away. I _never_ do. But I might, because that's how things are, and who I ended up being. If that's alright with you, I don't wanna talk about that tonight. Don't even wanna think about it. Damian is the priority."

"Of course." Dick agrees, straightening his back. "It's fine, Jaybird. All fine. I know it's not easy. Truth is, I'm worried about you now because it's not fair if all of us but _you _get a chance to reach closure. You should have gotten it first, Jay. Years ago. I am sorry it didn't happen."

Jason's face is unreadable. He lets a few seconds pass before he breathes out:

"Yeah. Alright."

"For what it's worth," I offer, "they're not yelling, and Bruce hasn't called for our help so far. It's good. They're doing good. Must be."

Dick beams at me, his smile earnest and kind. Jason tilts his head in my direction and offers me a smirk that I am positive by now is tenderness in disguise. We stay like this a while longer, wrapped up in comfortable silence, until Alfred joins us with a tray full of coffee and sweets. He sits on the sofa and asks Dick whether Babs is planning on stopping by soon. He reminds me that my cast will stay in place for three weeks, not a single day less, but that he'll help by feeding me cookies when Bruce isn't watching. He wonders how Jason fared on his SATs.

And my mind is quiet. So quiet. Drunk on care.


	12. Chapter Six - part 2

**Uh, that one... _Uh_.  
**

**For those of you on ao3, I just posted a new Damian/Colin story there, '_and i feel cold in my warmest clothing_' - pseud: kiehtova. ******It will be a long one and, as proof, the first chapter is a 12k+ word monster. ** Jason and Colin centric so far, but watch out for Damian's storyline. This boy, I swear...  
But let's be clear: I'm not abandoning '_Bereft_' until it's done, and won't rush the writing! =) We're approaching the end. I am considering writing a sequel, set a few years later, but that'll be up to you readers. Please tell me whether you'd want one or not.**

**I could use feedback on this chapter - it was really... '_uh_'. That's the only way I can describe the writing process for this. I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. =) Until then...**

* * *

_**6.2 – Bruce Wayne**_

"I called you – many times. I'm not even sure my voice was working, but I called you. And you never came. It drove me insane."

Damian is shaking, looking at his shoes, keeping his arms near his chest like a shield. His heart might need that indeed.

"I am sorry, son. I'm _really_ sorry. It took us a while to track your signal. We should have reacted earlier. This is not your fault."

"It_ is_. I got caught."

"You were defending your friends. There is no shame in that. The attack was planned carefully, and we_ as a group_ failed to predict it. Please don't blame yourself for what was not _your_ mistake in the first place."

He hides behind his hands, swaying back and forth a little. I let him gather his thoughts for a while. We're sitting close, at arm's length, so that Damian had to sink deep into his armchair to put a bit more distance between us. I don't know whether I should pull my chair further away or not. When Damian emerges again, he is giving me a look full of distress and guilt.

"Sometimes," he whispers, "I wish I had not jumped there, so they'd have caught Maps instead."

I contain a wince. Tim had the idea that Damian would say something of this kind, which come to think of it makes me worried for the both of them, now that this truth is out. This is a dark, yet all too human thought to have in times like this.

"It's wrong," Damian goes on. "I know it's wrong."

"But it is not an abnormal reaction," I try. He recoils. I quickly add: "Damian, you are aware of the stages of grief. Yes, wishing… _this_ upon a friend is wrong, but you are allowed to bargain with the pain. That's a part of moving on. If your feeling of fault is such, you can tell Maps. I am certain that she also blames herself for putting yourself in front of danger in the first place, thus needing you to…"

"She doesn't _need_ help."

"Thus _prompting_ you to help," I amend. His blank tone was chilly. "She is your friend, and a dear one, so of course you wanted nothing bad to happen too her. She might feel bad that she was in the way of a danger that ended up hurting you. You can talk to her – you should."

"She'll think I'm a _monster_." His voice quivers.

"No. She won't. She knows and appreciates you, Damian, and she is a sensitive person. Tell her about this thought, then tell her you're _sorry_. What happened cannot be changed, but to imagine different ways things could have gone is completely natural. Please believe me, she'll understand. And you are _not_ a monster. The men who attacked you, however, are. Them only."

I can tell that my son does not believe me completely. His eyes are imploring for me to say something else, but I have little idea of what. I fear that he could wish for me to blame him, but dismiss the thought. Damian keeps silent, putting his feet on the floor to sit more properly, mulling over my words, his face resigned. He appears to be chewing on his tongue, getting prepared to tell me more, working through mental barriers. I wish I could just ask him direct questions, however that does not seem like the safest option. I _should_ let him come to me. But it's more difficult, frustrating and sad than I thought it would be.

Dick tried to coach me on how to lead this conversation, a few days ago. He meant well, yes, but it only left me with more doubts and an increasing feeling of cowardice I'd never admit to. '_Be confident, be vulnerable, call acts what they are, don't remind him of what happened more than once or twice, don't let him avoid the subject, allow him to talk about whatever he wants…_' It was confused, much like Dick was then. To his credit, he was not panicking. But_ I_ was. I _am_. After everything that has happened in this family, _to_ this family, I can feel the crushing weight of guilt and missed opportunities to make it all better, all buried under a code and stern rules I set up eras ago, but could not believe in anymore myself. Situations became grey; or perhaps they always were, and I just couldn't see it.

"Damian," I murmur, "please talk to me."

"I'm sorry I killed them."

'_You or me, they _had_ to die_,' is what I want to answer. I don't – I _mustn't_. My ears are ringing with the echo of Jason's pleas, after he came back, after he saw that the Joker was still alive. There is no telling how much I have grown as a father since, but all I know right now is that Damian needs a moral compass and a trustworthy father as bad as Jason did. Except, I _failed_ Jason. I didn't allow any nuance in the words I spoke. The balance truly is difficult to maintain.

"They attacked you, Damian. Three grown men, hurting you while you were drugged. None of us was here. You just defended yourself. I am not mad – I understand." He still doesn't look me in the eye. And I _had_ to make it about myself again. Jason and Alfred might be on to something. "Are you mad at _yourself_? For killing them?"

"Yes." He stretches his legs again, his feet poking mine. "You don't approve of it. It was bad enough that they… I made everything worse."

"Damian…"

"They won."

I bite my tongue, _hard_, to keep my anger down and my voice as levelled as possible.

"That's not what they did. Do you _know_ what they did?"

His teeth graze the wound on his lips. It has just closed this morning – he reopens it on the spot. He doesn't move nor say anything for a minute, knuckles white from clenching his fists too hard. He is staring at me, looking for answers or ways to escape my question. To my surprise, at last, he answers:

"Yes. They raped me."

That could almost be enough for me to believe in God again.

Damian's expression tells me that he has never said it out loud. I am so glad – and _proud_ – that he just did, but as he seems about to withdraw completely, I know that I must find something to keep the exchange going. It's a risky task.

"You have spent better nights, lately, haven't you? Less nightmares?"

"Less," he agrees. "But… I know it's not rational, because… because it's _not_, but I still feel them. Everywhere. On me." He joins his hands, scratching them nervously. He doesn't take his eyes away from mine. "Will it go away?"

This question is a landmine I have high chances to step on. I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. _Keep honest, Bruce, but_ kind…

"Maybe. It is not certain, Damian – for _now_. With time, and more care, you'll probably stop feeling it. It's normal that it still burns. It's recent. They took something away from you, and as long as you'll miss it, you'll remember where it hurt. But you have to keep faith that the feeling will disappear. Perhaps, even then, it will come back from time to time, but it will get easier. I swear it will."

He scratches his fingers. Nods. I can feel his tension diminishing, although the silence becomes heavier by the second. On the armrest, Damian's phone buzzes slightly. I test my luck:

"Have you told Colin about the rape?"

"_No_."

"Why not?"

"I can't – he…" He mumbles something afterward, low and rushed enough that I cannot understand it.

"I'm sorry, Damian, I didn't catch that…"

"I can't tell Colin, because he _loves_ me." He focuses on his hands, twisting them, scratching them. His expression sinks even lower on the despair scale. "He asked me on dates before. Then he'd always correct himself and say these weren't like _that_, but… It always is. Between us. I was okay with that. Am. Maybe." He shakes his head, adds: "We hug. It… feels alright."

It's like a wall just fell on me. Of all the possible ramifications I imagined, that one was high on the list of those I was hoping to avoid at all cost. If Damian looked nervous before, he now seems to alternate between anger, sadness, and a possible panic attack. I suddenly feel lucky that Dick and I discussed this scenario beforehand.

"Are you attracted to boys, Damian?"

His breathing shortens, weakens. When our eyes meet, his are full of tears, as he brings his legs closer to his chest and is definitely hurting his hands by now.

"I don't know," he mutters. "Perhaps. No. It's just… I like _him_. Please _stop_."

* * *

"You should count down from three," Jason called.

He was sitting on the library floor, small piles of books around him, a few more titles in his hands. As far as I could tell, he was not looking for anything in particular, just reorganizing the room. _Another_ room. At this point, I had solid doubts that I'd find anything in the manor where it once used to be – before Jason came back and _stayed_. He had always been one to keep tidy the places he lives in; to my concern, this quality of his had reached almost obsessive levels with time. Even his tone, although often dry when he was talking to me, was collected when he went on:

"Or seven, or ten, or whatever number you'd give your anger on a ten steps scale. It can go beyond it as well, you're your own police. It's just a tool."

"I am aware."

He sent me an odd glance. "_Are you_?" He turned his attention back to the books as he added: "Roy wrote the numbers down on paper. Counted out loud, too. He gets frustrated quite frequently, but doesn't look forward to a heart attack. Or to hurt people. You can't focus when you're angry – said a man with a black cape, pointy ears, and a jaw looking a lot like yours. Could have fooled me, that day."

Days before, I had made the promise to Dick and Alfred that I would talk to Jason at some point, in a quiet place, the sooner the better. The library, where and when Jason was calm, seemed like the best opportunity in a while. I walked in his direction, stopped about two meters away from him before let myself fall on the floor, my back leaning on the bookshelves. He acknowledged it with a nod.

"I am not angry, Jason."

"I know. You're _sad_. But you _will_ get nervous and frustrated when Damian will start talking to you about things you'd rather avoid, or have little understanding of on a personal level. That's when you should start to count – so you won't fuck it up with the kid. Neither of you would recover from a failed talk of that importance. Don't speak too fast this time."

The lines on his face had hardened since he was fifteen, but they still have a smoothness to it under the strong jaw, the tall build, the strength of his grip. It had been instructive, if anything, to have him around. He did well for himself once I stopped yelling at him. His frequent encounters with Tim defined his caring side a bit further.

"Bruce?" I had zoned out. Jason's voice brought me back in the moment. It was hurtful to see how worried the man appeared.

"I'm okay, Jay."

"But _Damian_ is not," he retorted. "You'll have to be careful – _really _careful. He might tell you things that you don't wanna hear, let alone deal with, but you'll _have_ to."

"I know."

"You don't."

"I _know_, Jason. I do. Please believe me." It was a lost cause, but rightly so. Jason had every reason not to trust that I could help Damian, given how I had managed all-too-personal situations in the past.

He just carried on with his initial task for a minute, ignoring me. I stayed a while longer. A copy of Asimov's _Foundation and Empire_ stood in my line of sight. I could not remember when the last time I had read anything for pleasure was.

"Part of me believes that you'll find the right words and actions to answer Damian's needs," Jason said, each syllable slow. "I assume that you've gone through a bunch of simulations regarding how things could go, what he could tell you, and what the most appropriate answers would be. It won't work much, of course. It'll be some '_in the moment_' thing. But better get prepared, I guess."

I waited for more, and when it became clear that he was done talking, I asked:

"What of the other part of you?"

"That one," he sighed, "it calls you '_dad_' and remembers every fight we ever had."

_Ten, nine, eight_…

* * *

I start from a hundred. I cross my arms and bow my head to give Damian some space and the right not to look at me. Obviously the abuse itself is far beyond what I could ever tolerate, as a reasonable man and more so as a father; but if Damian is attracted to boys, or at least _one_ of them, I have no clear idea what the proper way to handle the situation is. Dick and I discussed it, yes. It doesn't mean we found answers.

When I reach zero, I raise my head to assess how Damian is feeling. _Not good_. He has started to munch on his right hand, the other one a tight fist underneath, his eyes half-shut. I pronounce his name, quietly, before I grab his maimed hand and pull it closer to me.

"You draw with this one," I remind him, trying on a faint smile. "Colin loves what you draw, doesn't he?"

In less than a second, I have his undivided attention. He looks a bit cautious, if I'm honest, but I can reach him. It's a good start.

"It doesn't matter who you like, Damian, as long as you respect and care for each other. Please remember that, as well as the fact that whoever loves or will love you would _never_ do to you what these men did. They'd take the first '_no_' as gospel and would immediately stop touching you, or doing whatever makes you uncomfortable, because that's how it _should_ work. Please avoid people who cannot respect that. You mustn't blame yourself for the wrong actions perpetrated against you, son. You did not consent to any of this, and when you tried to stop it, it was denied to you. What would you tell Colin if that happened to him? Or to _Maps_?"

He shudders at that. Not the best move, indeed. I squeeze his hand a bit harder.

"I'm sorry, Damian. Was that… that was harsh, wasn't it? I'm sorry. Foreign waters. Listen, son, I'll do anything for you to feel better, whatever you need, whatever you wish for, but I _can't _tell you want you want to hear only. Your self-esteem was hurt, and that's normal, that's what these things do to people, and I just can't stand by what you might be thinking of yourself right now. I love you. Your brothers and Alfred love you. The girls, the kids from Gotham Academy, Colin – they love you too. It doesn't mean you're not allowed to hurt, and the same goes for us. To get better, we'll need _honesty_. If Colin loves you _that_ way, which is an idea I support, no question asked, then you should tell him what happened. He won't think any less of you. He'd _never_. He'll recognize the efforts it took for you to admit it, understand your recent behaviour better, and adjust the care he provides you accordingly. He might start to heal or seek help for himself, too, maybe just seeing you, or talking to the nuns, or messaging Jason even more often than he does now. If you two end up together, now or in the future, he'll be respectful of the boundaries you'll give for physical interaction. In general, whoever you end up with in a serious fashion _should_ know about what happened to you, for the contrary could potentially harmful for both parties. But that's far reached. For now, please consider asking for help from Colin, from any of us, whenever you want to and about anything. It's a process, but we'll all get there. Just tell me what you need – now, tomorrow, anytime – and I'll provide."

"But I don't want anyone's pity," he whispers. I trace circles on the back of his palm.

"It is not pity, Damian. It's people hurting _for_ you, just like you feel hurt when they are, because they care and wish to help you share the burden of your grief. It's concern. It's what happens when people love and are loved. It's not a bad thing. It makes our bounds stronger, trustworthy and _easier_, until we don't need to fear pity anymore."

He claws in my hand with both of his, and doesn't let go. I'm okay with that. We let silence fill the room for a long time, until Damian whispers, barely audible:

"I don't want to talk anymore. For now. _Please_."

"I understand. It's alright." I hesitate an instant, lost in the way Damian's exhaustion shows on his baby face, before I ask him: "Would you mind if – _can I_ – carry you upstairs?"

"_Please_."

He sounds so broken. I scout forward and gather him into my arms. He hugs me immediately, lets his head fall in the hollow of my neck, his small hands gripping on my sweater as though letting it go would make me disappear. I hold him tight, careful not to hurt him. I keep my pace slow when I exit the room, climb the stairs, wander in the hallway for a while. Damian is trembling a little, but calms down every time I rub his back in a gentle motion. I don't say a word. He is warm and _so small_. I kiss his temple, lean on the door outside his bedroom, and only drop him on his bed when he falls sound asleep, still holding on to me.


End file.
